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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



Eliza and Etheldreda 
In Mexico 



NOTES OF TRAVEL 



BY 



PATTY GUTHRIE 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

835 Broadway, New York 

BRANCH OFFICES: CHICAGO. WASHINGTON. BALTIMORE. 
ATLANTA. NORFOLK. DES MOINES. IOWA 



Copyright, 191 1, 

By 

Broadway Publishing Company 






©CI,Aa97593 |\ 




CONTENTS 

Chapter 1 5 

Chapter II. . . . . , . 9 

Chapter III 15 

Chapter IV 19 

Chapter V ' . . .23 

Chapter VI 28 

Chapter VII 34 

Chapter VIII 42 

Chapter IX 46 

Chapter X 55 

Chapter XI 81 

Chapter XII 92 

Chapter XIII 97 

Chapter XIV. 103 

Chapter XV no 

Chapter XVI 114 

Chapter XVII 121 

Chapter XVIII 127 

Chapter XIX 136 

Chapter XX 143 



Eliza and Etheldreda 
in Mexico 



CHAPTER I 

It is with a feeling of real pleasure one leaves 
the train at the Central Station in the City of Mexico. 
The trip through the desert has been so depressing, 
the landscape so hideous and barren and the dust so 
all-encompassing that one cannot help but heave a 
sigh of infinite relief when the domes, the turrets and 
the whitewashed walls of the city come into view. 
The hope that there is something better awaiting one 
is more than realized. One always falls in with 
charming people on the way down, however, because 
charming people are going everywhere in these, our 
twentieth-century days, and they do much toward 
breaking the tedium of the trip. 

Still, there is the limitless cactus-covered region 
that stretches away toward the barren mountains, 
the burning sun glittering on the shifting sand, and 
the endless succession of little typical Mexican vil- 
lages with their high walls, and low mud houses. 
And, always, as the train drew up to the station, 
we were met by the same dirty, ragged, poverty- 
stricken crowd asking alms. When we halted for 

5 



OBIija ano (CtftelBteBa 



any length of time the passengers went out on the 
platform for a little fresh air and exercise, and the 
same cringing, curious crowd followed us at each 
place. "Dame um centavo" (Give me a cent) is the 
unvarying request of these people. ''Yes, yes. Have 
you change for a dollar?" inquired the absent- 
minded professor from an Eastern seminary, reaching 
down into a commodious pocket. The crowd of trav- 
elers smiled and disintegrated, and when I explained 
the professor's question, looking into the tense al- 
mond-shaped eyes of a little, unkempt, untaught 
daughter of Eve, she, too, looked foolish at the 
learned man's question, and turned away as he slipped 
a coin into her hand, having come to himself. 

The dreary waste of the landscape, the dust that 
filters through, in spite of the double windows, the 
filth, the rags, the poverty, and the ignorance of the 
people is so impressive, however, that careless mock- 
ery seems out of place. Then night comes slowly 
and drearily down, as we wait in a desolate little In- 
dian village, and I go to sleep, thinking to myself, 
*Tf this be Mexico, let me go back to prosperous, well- 
satisfied Missouri." 

After a time, however, the scene began to change. 
The great sea of eddying, drifting sand was receding 
in the distance; the thorny inhospitable cactus dis- 
appearing from the landscape, and the more lively and 
cheerful mesquite began to show itself. It was not 
till Zacatecus was reached and passed, that there came 
any appreciable change, however; then it was with 
slow gradation, that we passed from the desert to 
the mountains. 

Zacatecus and its surrounding towns — children of 
the mountain and desert — clings, each like an eagle 

6 



in ^mto 



in its eyrie, to the Mexican hills. They might have 
been transported from the Orient, and settled there 
to sleep and dreams in happy oblivion. For cen- 
turies they slept thus, then the shriek of the iron 
horse from the North awoke them from their dreams, 
and with this iconoclastic touch, came the spirit of 
modern commercialism, and a world of fancy was lost 
to the artist and the romanticist. 

Queretero, too, is changed since those days when 
Maximillian, in the glitter of royalty, carrying his 
jeweled sword, walked in melancholy introspection, 
and lingered in the silent cloisters with his visionary 
crown upon his head. Fate, in the person of General 
Escobeda, with his tireless soldiers, each day drew 
the cordon closer to its vortex, till the last play of 
the mimic empire came tragically to its close. 

We left the train here to try to get a glimpse of the 
hill of Las Campanas, where Maximillian and his 
faithful generals were shot. The Austrian govern- 
ment has, very appropriately, built a chapel, beautiful, 
in its neatness and simpHcity, at the summit of this 
hill to commemorate the memory of its martyred son, 
and the men who died with him. 

After leaving Queretero behind we went speeding 
through the mountains, higher and higher with each 
revolution of the wheel, till at noon on a certain day 
we reached the Mexican capital. 

Mexico City stands on the ancient plains of 
Anahuac, nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, 
in her setting of snow-capped mountains, the fairest 
jewel of the Sierra Madras — the Rome of America. 

To the south stands the lordly Popocatepetl inso- 
lent, threatening, morose, in his forced inactivity, 
while at his side sits Ixtlachiuhuatl, the Beautiful 

Z 



OBIi^a anD OBtfteiatetia 



White Lady, pure, indifferent, seductive, in her 
frozen chastity, wrapped forever in her gHttering 
mantle of snow. 

When Cortez, in his pomp and heraldry, marched 
with his gilded legions through the mountain gorge 
and gazed down upon the ancient Tenochtitlan, he 
thought that it must have been the work of fairies and 
not of human hands. He saw, below him, a city of 
magnificent temples, palaces, and imposing obeUsks. 
Clear, sparkling waterways coursed through every 
street, and the natives in white dress, glided, gon- 
dolier fashion, through them. In the destruction and 
havoc wrought by Cortez and his bestial followers, 
the appearance of the city was so changed that the 
streets, where once flowed the waters and glided the 
canoes are now paved or cobbled. 

There are magnificent temples and palaces also to 
be seen, but the obelisks, with their legends told in 
hieroglyphics, have disappeared. 

As you walk through the gate at the station, which 
is just like stations you have seen every day of your 
life, you are met by an army of hack drivers, who 
implore you in tones indicating every shade of feel- 
ing, to honor him by riding in his hack, and the 
most astonishing thing is everybody speaks Spanish. 
The hack drivers, the policeman on his beat, the 
newsboy (which is usually a woman), why, even 
the dogs understand it. Your first thought is, "What 
a cultivated city this must be with everybody speak- 
ing a foreign language so fluently." 



8 



in ^ttito 



CHAPTER II 

"I had only one objection to coming to you when 
my Cousin Harry went home — only one objection," 
Etheldreda reiterated, arranging a large spray of 
La France roses in a sea-green Haviland vase. It 
was the one we had picked up a few days previously 
at the Thieves' Market. "That was your nam.e," 
she went on, after a long pause, during which time 
I lazily surveyed her from my pile of cushions on 
the couch. "You will pardon me, I know," she 
added with conviction; "but, you know, I never did 
like that name !" 

"Well, I never cared for it myself until I heard 
the Man in Gray speak it. You never heard him 
say 'A-lee-sa,' did you, Etheldreda?" 

"Yes, I have; and that's just what I'm saying. 
I never liked it till I heard him talking to you the 

other- and, honestly, I would almost consent to 

be called that myself, if ever}^body said it as he does. 
You know I really can't be blamed though, Eliza, 
because I got an early distaste to that name, and one's 
youthful impressions, even in regard to names, are 
ineradicable, don't you know. But I had an Aunt 
Eliza who used to make annual, and semi-annual visits 
to our house when I was a child, and if you had 
known her you would not have wondered at my an- 
tipathy for the name. Auntie told me I must try to 
be patient with her, that she had suffered a dread- 



Cli^a anU CtftelOteaa 



ful disappointment, the man to whom she was en- 
gaged having died just before they were to have 
been married. They said he was an architect — quite 
a genius, in fact; though I never heard of but one 
thing he did, and that was to plan the house they 
were to Hve in." 

"Was it something exceptional?" I inquired from 
the depth of my cushions. 

"Oh, yes!" replied Etheldreda, taking all the roses 
out of the vase and beginning to arrange them anew. 
"They said it was perfect, just the most perfect 
house that had ever been constructed, the only thing 
wrong with it, being," went on Etheldreda innocently, 
"that no carpenter known to the business could ever 
have roofed it." 

That was one thing about Etheldreda, you never 
knew when she was really innocent, or as wise as a 
serpent. 

"So it ruined your aunt's disposition?" I queried. 

"No, not the house; her lover's dying did it," re- 
plied my companion as I turned my head and smiled. 

Etheldreda came to Mexico a few weeks ago in 
company with a cousin and his wife. The cousin has 
some kind of interests here in mines, livestock, drawn 
work, or something I can't remember what. When 
they had been in town only a few days he was sud- 
denly called home on account of some important 
business, and his wife wished to accompany him. 
Naturally, they did not want to leave Etheldreda 
alone in a foreign city, and insisted that she should 
return with them. She, however, protested, coaxed, 
and finally refused, point blank, to go. They, on 
the other hand, argued, pleaded, and threatened, but 
the girl was obdurate and refused to budge. The 

lO 



in Qgeiico 



gentleman, who was an old schoolmate of my broth- 
er's, learned accidentally that I was in the city, so 
he and his good wife came to me and importuned me 
to take their willful young cousin under my charge. 
With some trepidation, and much reluctance I con- 
sented, and that is how it happened that Etheldreda 
is now sharing my rooms at the Jardin Hotel. 

Etheldreda, like myself, is charmed with Mexico, 
on the whole, and thoroughly enjoys the picturesque- 
ness and beauty of the land ; the blue, blue, sky hung 
so far above the earth, the moon that lays as soft as 
snow on the mountain crest, the air odorous and 
seductive that, blowing from the sun-kissed south, 
seems always to envelop you and steal away your 
senses till there is no desire left but to drowse and 
dream your life away. And the quaintness and 
strangeness of it all! 

"This," said a man to me who has visited many 
lands, "this is the most foreign country I have seen." 

We pass many hours wandering about the city, 
Etheldreda, the Man in Gray, and I. Sometimes we 
spend a whole afternoon loitering through some broad 
residence street, lingering, as long as we may, before 
some open door to catch a glimpse of the life within, 
admiring the flowers and the beauty and chasteness 
of the architecture. More especially though do we 
find entertainment and food for conversation and 
thought in watching the young girls and women as 
they stand for hours in their balconies, looking from 
their gilded cages, down on the leisure world be- 
low. Most of the buildings are white or gray; but 
some of them, especially those in the wealthy sub- 
urban towns, are exquisitely tinted. In regard to 
the general plan of the houses, not only in Mexico 

II 



(ffilifa anD dEtftelDtefla 



City, but throughout the RepubHc, there may be said 
to be the house universaL The homes of the Indians 
are long, low, sombre-colored abodes with roof of 
cane stalks, straw, or maguey plant, and that of the 
better class is the eternal square built around an 
open court. In the cities, these courts are usually 
filled with fruits and flowers, singing birds, playing 
fountains, and laughing children. Some of these are 
dreams of beauty and poetic adornment, and are called 
jardines — gardens. Everywhere, as one goes about 
the republic, one sees the same square exterior, the 
fiat front without projection of any kind, and the 
same heavy, mediaeval door with brass knocker. A 
few of the buildings are ornamented about the copings 
with gargoyles, and other realistic designs, but the 
majority are without ornate ornamentation, heavy, 
massive, made to endure with the ages. Almost any 
one of them might have been transplanted bodily from 
some Moorish stronghold and set on the crest of the 
Cordilleras. 

You must know, however, that there is only one en- 
trance to the Mexican house, that one being in the 
middle front. Those who have recently come from 
the States marvel to see huge hampers of bread, live 
chickens, vegetables and trains of patient, burden- 
bearing burros pass through the lordly portals. Then, 
too, in the houses of many of the wealthiest and 
most exclusive, the lower floors are used as offices or 
other public places, and under each is the stable and 
carriage house. Incongruous? Yes, but you get 
used to anything in time. 

It all becomes somewhat monotonous as the days 
go by, the same square house, the great door, the 
generally shut-in appearance of everything, and the 

12 



in &^tnto 



white, white houses blinking at you. Still, one is 
impressed with the grandeur of the whole. 

One of the first things one notices on arriving in 
Mexico City is the almost smokeless, chimneyless ap- 
pearance of the place. Where, in the cities of our 
land, the smoke ascends in funnels, clouds and masses, 
and fills the sky with inky humity; here, in the dry 
season, the sky above is as clear, blue, and smokeless 
as on a bright June, day in the open country. And 
assuredly there is not a more quiet city to be found 
in all the world. Even after nightfall almost an 
Arcadian stillness prevails, except down near the 
center of the city. There is never the hurry, the 
never-ending mad rush, for, we know not what, and 
the tense, strained look on the faces of the people 
that one sees on the faces of the throng in our 
Northern cities. It seems a surety that the people 
in general obey the Scriptures, in that they take no 
apparent thought for the morrow in regard to what 
they shall eat, what they shall drink, or wherewithal 
they shall be clothed, and especially with reference 
to the latter clause. 

The street cars, also, run along in a much more 
leisurely and dignified way, and the electric cars, 
especially those that go out to the suburban towns, 
have whistles. They have a gong also, I have dis- 
covered, but these gongs are not rung so persistently 
nor so aggressively as are the bells in the sister re- 
public. But when the motorman does find it neces- 
sary to sound this instrument of torture he does it in 
a kind of subdued and apologetic way that fills the be- 
holder with wonder and admiration. And when he 
runs by you without taking you in, which is fre- 
quently the case — as they do not permit people to 

13 



(Blna anD (EtIjelDreUa 



fill the cars until they are packed to suffocation — 
he bows so politely, and looks so regretful, you feel 
almost as though he had bestowed a favor. 

I have said that it all becomes monotonous after 
a time, but this is only half a truth ; always the little 
side street in which a foreigner seldom intrudes, re- 
tains a charm for me. The little places of business 
seem tucked away in the most unaccountable way, 
and the name, ''Hole in the Wall," that is given to 
one of the well-known curio stores, would apply to 
many others in the city. In the arrangement of the 
commodities contained in them they are conformable 
to no known law; each holding an egregious collec- 
tion, purely Mexican, and individual. In one is dis- 
played corals and miniature sombreros, in another, 
Indian blankets made in the national colors, and all 
showing the Mexican emblem, the eagle perched on 
the cactus, holding a snake in its talons. In others 
we would find restaurants furnished with small deal 
tables, and perhaps a variety of cheap laces and pic- 
tures of Christ in the window. Pottery and saints, 
the ever-present lottery ticket, pulque, prayer books 
and rosaries all in a jumble, but none to be bought 
without a wrangle. 



14 



in Q^mco 



CHAPTER III 

I first met Etheldreda at a large reception given 
in honor of a well-known bishop from the States, 
who had come to Mexico to look into the mission 
work being done there, and get rid of the gout, espe- 
cially the latter. There were present at this recep- 
tion a good many Mexicans, still more Americans, a 
few English, one or two Frenchmen, a professor 
from the Fatherland, and several from nowhere in 
particular. 

My hostess, who was amiability itself, seated me 
among a mass of odorous, perfume-laden flowers, in 
the midst of which was a huge palm, with gigantic, 
overshadowing leaves. When I turned, with smiling 
solicitude, to reply to the questions of the musically 

low voice of Sefior Del , one of those aggressive 

palm leaves made an assault on my right ear. As 
I turned again to speak to Mrs. Silvermine Devon- 
shire I was attacked in a similar way on the left 
side. It was she who had on the diamond earrings 
that Etheldreda said looked like headlights on a loco- 
motive, but as I did not know that they were the 
real thing until later, am afraid I was not sufficiently 
impressed. Looking up, I bowed low to the salu- 
tation of Senora B and was caught in my high 

piled hair; then, with determination, I raised my 
head only to be taken under the chin. I continued 
to smile, though at heart I was a villain still. If 

15 



OBli^a atiB CtfielDteaa 



it had been a real, sure-enough palm, I could have 
stood it with more inward composure — I flattered 
myself, however, that my outward composure was 
perfect — but Etheldreda, who has wonderful ability 
for fathoming out the inward working of things, told 
me afterwards that they were only some mammoth 
leaves that had been bought and stuck into a costly 
jardiniere just for the occasion. The effect was all 
right, and that is the only requisite in La Republica. 

In Mexico City, as in all cities where people from 
every land are congregated, one finds many psycho- 
logical peculiarities. I noticed this particularly among 
Americans as I, of course, was thrown more often 
among my own countrymen. The American dweller 
in a foreign city is, in the main, an anomalous com- 
munity. He is often an interesting and puzzling 
problem. He tells you, with evident pride, that he 
no longer is provincial ; that his travels and resi- 
dence abroad have made him more liberal, less exact- 
ing; in short, has broadened him to almost any ex- 
tent. He forgets, however, that as a stream broadens, 
it becomes correspondingly shallow, and that the 
shallow stagnate, and become putrid. He refuses to 
accept the moral code of his adopted land and repudi- 
ate those of his own. His notions in regard to the 
Deity are vague and pantheistic, and he applies them 
in an impersonal way to nothing in particular. It 
were better for a man to be the narrowest churchman, 
or a **yellow-dog Democrat," than to entertain no seri- 
ous convictions in these subjects, for the man with 
an opinion, at least, feels enthusiasm and interest, 
and what really is life without these sensations? 

So the American resident abroad returns to his 
home, out of tune with America, and things American, 

i6 



in ^tiito 



vaguely dissatisfied at what he sees about him, and 
without having really lived his life at all. 

The Mexicans, as is the case with all the Latins, 
are an excessively polite people ; at least, at first blush, 
so they impress those who are lately on the ground; 
but if you remain for any length of time, you will, 
no doubt, on occasion, be astounded at the degree of 
rudeness shown. If, however, there comes a better 
understanding of the people, and the feelings often 
evinced toward foreigners, especially toward Ameri- 
cans, this apparent rudeness is not so inexplicable. 
For many years there has been a steady flow of 
Americans into the Aztecs' land, and still the tide 
continues. They have builded railroads, power 
houses, and manufactories. The Americans' hand is 
at the throttle that drives the engine from the yel- 
low Rio Grande to the mountain peaks of Tehuante- 
pec. They own hundreds of haciendas, and control 
mining stock. "The peaceful conquest of Mexico by 
the Americans," some of the Mexicans themselves 
laughingly say, while others, and quite naturally, bit- 
terly resent this invasion. 

In regard to this excessive politeness that comes 
so naturally, and at times is so lacking, Etheldreda 
and I feel a little resentful sometimes. The other 
day, as we sat in a car, we watched two Mexicans 
arise, with their old world courtesy, and shake hands 
in the most solicitous and leisurely manner, each 
making inquiries in minutest detail as to the state 
of health of the other, his family, parents, brothers, 
sisters, and all near and some distant relatives, and 
the fact that two women, each carrying a big, fat 
baby and a satchel did not seem in the least to em- 
barrass them, or hasten their long-drawn-out greet- 

17 



mi^a ann ©tftelDrena 



ings. After the Mexicans were seated two typical 
Americans, who had stood aside to let the women 
come in — sturdy, earnest, clear of eye, they halted 
abruptly, each gave the other a cordial, pump-handle 
shake — inquired in one sentence, and in rather a loud 
voice as to the general, not particular, health of the 
other, and the rate of the exchange of money on 
that day. There is a peculiarity among people in 
general, and that is when they are in a foreign coun- 
try, or among people who do not speak the same 
language as themselves, they seem to get the idea 
that they are in a colony of partial deaf mutes, and 
raise their voices accordingly. I know a dear old 
Mexican woman who fairly shouts every time she 
addresses me. 

When our two Americans had shaken hands — 
time required, about fifteen seconds — and had in- 
quired as to the health of the other, and the condi- 
tion of the money market — time required, about thirty 
seconds — each selected a seat, dropped into it, and 
was immediately absorbed in a newspaper. 

There is a beautiful Httle senorita down here — Our 
Maria — who frequently says to me, "You Americans 
make me horribly tired. I never go anywhere with 
one of you that you are not in a hurry to go, and a 
hurry to get back. You are always looking at your 
watches, walking impatiently up and down, and won- 
dering when something, or somebody, is going to 
start. Then, when they start, you wonder when they 
will stop. In the meantime you walk up and down 
some more, look at your watches again, and wonder 
all over again. What is it you have? Nervous 

pros . What is it you call it ? Prostration ? Well, I 

don't wonder; you are giving it to the whole world." 

i8 



in Q^e^EicD 



CHAPTER IV 

Do not imagine that you have seen all there is of 
interest in Mexico City when you have driven through 
the principal residence streets, visited the national 
palace, pawn shops, cathedral, and museum. You 
must see Tlalpam, where they raise flowers, and 
Coyoacan, where they have the cattle shows. And — 
but you have not really been to Mexico till you have 
seen Chapultepec. Of course, all the world knows 
what Chapultepec is, but in order to refresh the mem- 
ory a little, will say that it is the White House of 
Mexico, and is also a military school and fortress, 
built on a mountain of solid porphyry, and was the 
country place of Montezuma and his ancestors. Near 
by is the viaduct built by this sadly abused monarch, 
and a little farther down is the driveway, called the 
Paseo, constructed by Maximillian, and which greatly 
facilitated the access to the castle. There is a grand 
natural park at the back and side of Chapultepec, 
for which nature has done wonders, and art quite a 
little. Huge weeping willows — like one sees in all 
the pictures of graveyards — border a little natural 
stream, that bursts out of the side of the mountain 
just below where the American soldiers poured such 
deadly shot and shell into the superb fortress that 
stood so gloomily and picturesquely above them. A 
little farther down lie buried the young Mexican 
soldiers who fell in that last fight, and it is said that 

19 



OEli^a ana dEtftelDteDa 



the cadets of the present day take fresh flowers every 
morning to put on the graves of those fallen heroes. 
All along the drive by the little lake — that is natural 
also — are beautiful and romantic spots, where one can 
find enticing and inviting seats, ideal for love making. 

One cannot describe this fortress with its imposing 
grandeur, and fascinating historical memories, but 
just imagine a huge rambling castle in a tale of love 
and Spanish knight errantry, and you have it. As 
one writer says, *'It is with a feeHng of deepest rev- 
erence and almost awe one enters the gates to this 
magnificent castle, imposing and soul-subduing, where 
the soft air sighs through the cypress trees, and seems 
to speak in broken accents of the sad and voiceless 
past." I was so sorry I had not thought of saying 
all this myself, before somebody else wrote it — ^but 
am positive I could never have expressed it so 
poetically. I liked that part especially where it speaks 
of "the voiceless past." 

It is well worth the trip to Tlalpam, too; beautiful, 
aristocratic, dainty Tlalpam, where the very air is 
redolent of romance, and moonlight serenades. 

The houses are nearly all of adobe, and are large, 
imposing, and artistic, with colorings of the most re- 
fined and harmonious. Through one of the large open 
doorways Etheldreda and I stood one day and looked 
at the scene within. A huge rose clustered over one 
side of the corridor, the weighted vines hanging in 
long, langourous profusion; jessamines, crepe myrtles 
and acacias intertwined their arms in seductive em- 
brace — the air was heavy with the perfume of it all, 
and in the center was a fountain, crowned by a beau- 
tifully chiseled Niobe that cast her opal mists out over 

20 



in ^mco 



the drooping flowers. At the far end of the garden 
a number of girls, dressed in white, were singing 
their favorite play-song, Doila Blanca. 

"Are they really, truly fairies?" whispered Ethel- 
dreda. 

It is just beyond Tlalpam, up on a picturesque, tree- 
covered mountain, where one or more rivers are borne. 
Some day when you have a little leisure, and you 
will go a mile with me I can show you where they 
come bursting out of a cave, and go tumbling over 
a little fall into the lake below. 

Each of these suburban places has its ancient mag- 
nificent cathedral, and inviting little plaza. Com- 
fortable seats are always to be found in these plazas, 
as well as the never-failing glorietta, with its clear, 
dancing water and the fountain in the center. The 
chiseling on these gloriettas, or basins, and the fig- 
ures adorning the fountains are always chaste and 
beautifully done, some of them being real works of 
art. Out at Popotla, just beyond the confines of the 
city, stands El Arbol de la Nothe Triste, or the tree 
of the sad night. This tree is a weather-beaten and 
scarred cypress, that was hoary with age when Cortez 
landed with his galleons at the port of Vera Cruz. 
On the dark night when the players had left the stage 
in riot and confusion, and the curtain had gone down 
on the last act in the tragedy this intruder had 
wrought, disappointed and humiliated he leaned 
against this tree and wept, then throwing himself 
upon the ground where he was hidden by its shel- 
tering bough, he spent the night in bitter grief and 
retrospection; weeping, not like Alexander because 
there were no more worlds to conquer, but because he 

21 



mi^n ano OBtfteiarelia 



could not conquer this one little world. Etheldreda 
has said to me a dozen times, I know, "Have you told 
about Santa Fe?" 

"Santa Fe?" I repeat dreamily, **Santa Fe?" But 
that is another story. 



^ 



in ^mto 



CHAPTER V 

To reach Santa Fe you go on the electric line to 
Tacubaya, then take a little mule car that meanders 
through the town and out over a rather narrow moun- 
tain-top, with San Angel, and Mixcoax showing in 
the distance like mediaeval mirages. 

We got a basket of strawberries, some chico za- 
potes, oranges and pasteles in the little market near 
the plaza for our lunch. Old Juana, the tortilla wo- 
man, wanted to sell us some mole de guajolote, the 
most delicious of all Mexican meats, but we con- 
sidered it not very well adapted for lunches. **Si, 
Nina," persisted the old woman. "Un pokito," indi- 
cating an infinitesimal amount. There is one thing 
about Mexico I like particularly, and that is, the peons 
always call you "Nina" (child), which makes you 
feel so fresh and young, even though you be white- 
haired and seventy. 

Francisca went along, of course, to take charge 
of the lunch baskets, wraps and cushions, and we 
relegated the making of further purchases to her, as 
the natives sell much cheaper to each other than 
to Americans. 

The town of Santa Fe is not much in itself, being 
only a typical Mexican village; but the bosque is 
everything. You go through the town; first, do^vn 
a little, narrow, cobble-paved street, where the people 
are living in ignorance and contentment. You pass 

23 



€li5a ann (CtftelDtena 



the town hall, the most imposing edifice in the place, 
where the water trickles lazily in the fountain, and 
where the judges seem to have nothing to do all day 
long but smoke cigars. And the children, like Lady 
Godiva, are clothed only in chastity. Then on, by 
the grand, weather-beaten old church, that seems to 
hang precipitately over the mountain side; and there, 
in the valley beyond, lays the bosque — an ideal wood, 
a perfect sylvan retreat. The huge moss-covered 
beeches and cypress, the curious mosaic waterways, 
the sound of ever-running water, the ruins of the 
convent that stands in bold relief against the deep 
blue of the sky above, all make a picture that is in- 
delibly stamped on heart and brain. The bosque is 
always cool, damp and serene, and as one sits in the 
enveloping shade, one is sure to catch the soft sigh of 
the breeze, the sound of the shrill whistle of a modern 
factory farther up the valley, the solemn subdued 
tones of the old church bell — and a deep cold. 

After eating our lunch, sitting on the hard, straight- 
up little seats in the bosque, and wandering around 
until we were tired, we went up on the side of the 
mountain, and lay down in the shadows of the ruined 
convent, and tried to take a nap. 

We had scarcely composed ourselves, however, till 
we heard a slight commotion, as of the breaking 
away of some rocks farther up the mountain side, and 
almost immediately there came, borne down to us in 
a fresh, young American voice, "I — dream of all — 
things — free, of all things — free," with a neat little 
cadenza on the *'dream," and a sostenato trill on the 
"free." 

**Why, who on earth ? What do you sup- 

24 



in ^tmto 



pose ?" exclaimed Etheldreda springing up, her 

big brown eyes growing bigger with wonder. 

It certainly did sound incongruous and unexpected 
to hear that hearty, care-free burst of English in 
such a place. The crumbling convent just above us, 
the deep wood beneath, with the hush of Sabbath 
stillness, the hitherto silence of the place being broken 
only by the desultory singing of a wayward Zenzontl, 
the Mexican mocking bird. 

Etheldreda had scarcely begun till there came a 
small rock sizzing over our heads, and almost on the 
instant a young American dressed in a gray business 
suit appeared from the rear of the convent. 

''Oh, I beg your pardon," he instantly exclaimed, 
his surprise being greater than ours. '1 hope that 
rock I just threw did not strike either of you." 

''No, but it just missed my head " began Ethel- 
dreda a little wrathfully. 

"Well, I am so sorry. It was inexcusable of me, 
but you know, some way, I was possessd with an 
insane desire to shy a rock off of that mountain. 
Grand old fellow, isn't he? I never thought of any- 
body being about, though; don't know why I didn't. 
Found these things a little farther back. Do they 
belong to either of you ladies?" producing a wisp of 
lace that, on occasion, did duty as a handkerchief. 

"Yes; that's mine," said Etheldreda, looking de- 
lighted. "Thank you so much!" 

"And this purse," the young stranger said, taking 
a small metal one from another pocket. 

"Oh, yes; look, Eliza, the purse Carolyn brought 
me from Florence. I would not have lost it for 
worlds." 

25 



(IBIi^a anD (EtftelDteDa 



"And these ?" he went on, bringing some side combs 
to light. 

"Those are mine," I interrupted.^ 

"And these," he continued, this time producing a 
pair of blue silk garters with a detached silver buckle. 
His face was suspiciously sober, but I could detect an 
underlying twinkle in his eye. 

"Oh," gasped Etheldreda, her face becoming sim- 
ultaneously blank. 

"Are those yours, Eliza?" 

"No, Etheldreda," I remarked with asperity; "you 
know perfectly well they are not mine." 

"Oh, thank you," as she held out a limp hand for 
her lost property. "So much obliged to you for find- 
ing our things. We had no idea we left anything 
up on the mountain." 

"Not at all. Glad I found them. My name is 
Frank Carpenter," he went on, producing a gray 
tweed cap from somewhere on the back of his head. 
"Fm a representative of the American Press Syndi- 
cate, down here looking up these ruins. Have you 
ladies found out anything about this convent?" whip- 
ping out his blank book. 

"No," quickly replied Etheldreda with interested 
animation; "but I've been thinking up a lovely story 
about it as I lay here. I began to make up one 
about a beautiful young lady " 

"We don't want stories," interrupted the American, 
a little brusquely, I thought. "It's facts we are after. 
Got any facts ?" 

As he stood there with the soft mountain haze about 
him and looked at his notebook, Etheldreda and I 
looked at him. Square of shoulder, sturdy of frame, 
glowing with manly energy, clear-eyed, his strong, 

26 



{n Q$t^ito 



honest face free from lines of care and worry, he 
stood before us, a goodly specimen even from a land 
where unmanly men are the exception and not the 
rule. 

"No," replied Etheldreda stiffly, "I don't know any 
facts. I hate facts ; it's nice spicy stories I like." 

Mr, Carpenter looked up at this reply, and burst 
into a fresh hearty laugh. "No, I don't suppose you 
ladies do care for facts. It's only something catchy 
and interesting you are after; but we fellows have 
got to hustle the facts, or lose our jobs, you see. 
Queer country, isn't it?" with a comprehensive wave 
of the hand. 

"Yes, until you get used to it," I replied. 

"Oh, you do get used to it, do you ? Had an idea 
you didn't. Are you stopping in the city?" he went 
on, addressing his question to me evidently, but look- 
ing at Etheldreda. "Glad I met you," and as we 
acknowledged a like pleasure, the young man again 
discovered his cap on the back of his head, and dis- 
appeared down the valley. 

After an incredibly short time, however, he reap- 
peared, walking with long, rapid strides up the moun- 
tain side, so steep it gave you acute palpitation of 
the heart only to think of it, which dusty path detracts 
no little from the quiet joys of a trip to this Edenic 
retreat. But I was to tell you about Santa Fe. Well, 
that is all there is to it — the bosque, and our meeting 
there with Frank. 



2? 



aBlt^a anti dBtbtmtM 



CHAPTER VI 

A few weeks after Etheldreda came to stay with 
me, we were invited by a friend of mine, who Hves in 
Bucareli, near the Iron Horse, to spend a fortnight 
with her. Of course, we gladly accepted, and in 
due time were installed in lovely rooms looking out on 
a charming little patio, where the flowers were always 
in bloom, and always exhaling their fragrance, and 
where the water in the fountain came merrily all day 
long out of a horn of plenty, held by a laughing 
cherub. 

The parlor, a long, narrow room extending the 
whole length of the front, was laid in hardwood, 
with rugs thrown here and there. The furniture 
had been picked up in pawn shops and out-of-the- 
way places, some of it being bought for a mere song. 
There were rare, old tables of Marie Antoinette de- 
sign, Empire sofas, of bent wood and ebony, with 
chairs to match, quaint vases, and marble figures on 
what-nots and mantels. The dining room was cool 
and delightful, with floor of dull red tile, Venetian 
blinds being over the windows, and the furniture, 
though American, tastefully matched the mediaeval 
setting. 

On the second morning of our stay we begged to 
be allowed to go to market with our friend, and she, 
of course, gave us the desired permission. Marketing 

28 



mk!'£;£S{mmutm-i&,iii^:i7iffiiMmm 



in ^ttico 



Sit home is often fraught with the gravest and most 
soul-absorbing interest, and in Mexico it is no less 
novel and inspiring to a stranger, especially when ac- 
companied by a grave and dignified Mozo. Our 
friend told us that when she first came to the city 
she intrusted the marketing to her Mozo, but after a 
time she concluded to take this duty upon herself, 
and that when she first announced her intention to 
that worthy, his astonishment and disapproval knew 
no bounds. He begged her, almost with tears in 
his eyes, not to do such a thing, as ladies — elegantes 
— never went marketing themselves; that this alwavs 
devolved on the Mozo. The poor fellow assured her 
repeatedly that ''No es costumbre" (It is not the cus- 
tom) — and until very recent years, woe be to the per- 
son who was so rash as to do anything that was ''no 
costumbre." 

Before going further I think it best to enter into 
some details as to what a Mozo is, as I feel sure some 
of you, at least, will be glad to know. Well, a Mozo 
is not an Aztec idol, nor a fresco, neither is he an 
ancient barbaric painting, nor a statue, but the in- 
dispensable, incomparable, relentless man-servant, 
called by all grades and conditions of men, "The 
Mozo." 

No family with any pretentions to gentility can 
possibly run an establishment without one of these 
indescribables. A Mozo is not as despotic as an Eng- 
lish butler perhaps, still his powers and capabilities are 
just as absolute in a great many ways. This is espe- 
cially true of his manner of quitting service. My 
friend, who has had countless Mozos, tells me they 
are as one man in this particular. She rarely, or 
never, has any outspoken words of disagreement with 

29 



(BU'^a attti aBtl)eItitelia 



them, they being, in the main, too polite to dispute 
with a woman; but when one has become thoroughly 
acquainted with the Mozo problems, one can tell by 
observing the movements, the disgusted gestures, and 
the indescribable grunts "That the time for his de- 
parture is at hand." Without a note of warning or 
complaint, this soft-voiced, obsequious personage 
picks up his sombrero, and with an expression on his 
face that the heavy villain in a play might envy, an- 
nounces, in the most final way, "Bueno yo voy" 
(Well, I am going), and you realize that one more 
implacable Mozo has gone to join the band of in- 
vincibles. One soon learns the utter futility and 
hopelessness of attempting to persuade them to stay 
after they have once made up their minds to go. 
"Yo voy," and, as sure as fate, they are gone. 

To return to the subject of marketing, Etheldreda, 
my friend and I, started off with a newly acquired 
and disapproving Mozo, who had on a spotless white 
jacket, painfully tight trousers with an umbrella 
spring at the ankle — the kind affected by all Mozos, 
by the way — and a sardonic smile. Reproof, polite 
and apologetic, though insistent, permeated the air 
and made itself felt. Nearly all of the markets are 
large, pavilion-like buildings, occupying the center 
of a plaza. Some of them are clean and attractive, 
but the majority are dirty and ill-kept. Vegetables, 
fruits, flowers, dogs, babies, parrots, pottery, and 
hot tamales are piled up in the most indiscriminate 
way. But the vegetables look fresh and tempting, the 
beautiful piles of the whitest onions and the reddest 
radishes, baskets of aguacates — the vegetable butter, 
which also makes a delicious salad — tomatoes, cab- 
bage, cauliflower, and the babies ; babies everywhere ! 

30 



V '- -■^■•^-r --^-7rf- '>¥?[r7./.rf1in(r . f V-r-r^ ■;-rrr-m\\ff^ <t f '^> 



in ggeiico 



on the floor, among the vegetables, on the backs of 
women. 

You never hear anything of race suicide in Mexico. 
Then, there are bright, half-naked children, mothers, 
grandmothers, hideous old crones, cripples, thieves, 
beggars, all, ever present. Whole families seem to 
find an eternal abiding place in these markets. There 
are fine specimens for the artist, the physical culturist, 
and the psychologist. 

The vegetables, fruits, nuts and chile of the small 
dealers in the markets, as well as on the streets, are 
all counted out in little piles, each pile being an exact 
counterpart of the other, and the retail system is 
used by these people with adamantine firmness. You 
can buy as many of these little heaps as you please, 
if you buy them one at a time, and pay for them in 
that way, but under no consideration will one of 
these venders sell the whole lot at a time. Etheldreda 
and I tried on several occasions to buy out the stock 
of one of these women, but always failed ignomini- 
ously. One poor, forlorn old woman's entire stock 
consisted of three minute heaps of chile, two or three 
of bananas, one of oranges and two of nuts, and 
when we insisted on buying the whole outfit just to see 
if we could, for once, break down this time-honored 
custom, the old woman became very angry and 
threatened to call an gendarme, so we desisted. 

There are no delivery wagons here, consequently 
all of these things are carried in huge baskets on the 
head of Mozos and other servants. Almost any time 
a man or woman may be seen going down the street 
in their peculiar little Indian trot carrying a basket 
containing a live chicken or turkey, fish, vegetables of 
all varieties, flowers and dulces. 

31 



dBIi^a ann Ct&eI9teDa 



The heavy weights the men carry on their backs are 
something appalHng. For twenty cents they will take 
a Saratoga trunk from one end of the town to the 
other, and I have seen one man carry iron safes, 
immense chiffoniers, and other large and unwieldy 
pieces of furniture for blocks. 

Of course I would not mention it for worlds if I 
thought it would be repeated out of the United 
States, but I think that we Americans always call up 
thoughts of commerce, and things commercial. Now, 
the other day Francisca asked Etheldreda and me 
what was the name of the city in the States where 
we lived, and when we told her St. Louis, she was 
delighted that she had heard of the place. 

"Oh, yes," she replied, "I know St. Louis perfecta- 
mente; all the world knows St. Louis and Milwau- 
kee, very great cities, very grand. They make much 
beer there." 

Etheldreda looked at me, and I looked at Ethel- 
dreda, and each asked the other the mental question, 
"Now, is there anything about me that suggests beer ?" 

As in days of old when the fame of Egypt went 
abroad because of the much corn there, so now the 
fame of St. Louis and Milwaukee goes abroad be- 
cause of their much beer. 

St. Louis has palaces of granite and marble, sub- 
stantial homes of brick and stone, and the most 
home-like homes of any city that the writer knows. 
She proudly sits on the lordly Mississippi, extending 
her length for forty miles up and down her richly 
verdured bluffs. She has large and sumptuous 
churches, universities, schools of art and science, mu- 
seums and libraries. Her parks are the most natur- 

32 



in QpeiiCD 



ally beautiful of any in the land, yet the world knows 
not of these things at all, has never heard of them. 
It is only for her beer, that amber froth and fer- 
mentation, that her fame has gone abroad. 



33 



dBH^a anD dEtftelDteBa 



CHAPTER VII 

Etheldreda and I were so delighted with our visit 

to Mrs. W that we decided to launch a little 

housekeeping craft of our own, provided we could 
find an apartment — vivienda, as they are universally 
called — to suit our fancy. The agent whom we en- 
gaged to find one, assured us every day for a round 
month that he was searching deligentemente, and 
would "sin falta" produce the very thing we were 
after, in "poco tiempo." We waited till our patience 
had dribbled slowly away, then we started out, guide 
book in hand, and frequently accompanied by the 
Man in Gray. 

House-hunting is not a pleasant diversion in any 
country, or under any circumstances, and the fact 
that the streets in Mexico change their nomenclature 
every few blocks, does not expedite matters very 
much. 

I had been in the country only a few weeks when 
Maria and I came across the Zocalo one day, and in 
order to avoid the crowd, passed through the portales 
and into the first street we came to. It was the feast 
of Corpus Christi, and the press of the throng made 
us hurry away. 

"We will go up Profesa, as it is more convenient," 
panted Maria, who abhorred a crowd. 

"So this is Profesa Street," I remarked after we 
had pushed our way along several blocks. 

34 



in ^ttito 



"No, that was Profesa back there ; this is San Fran- 
cisco." 

"Oh," I repHed, "and this is San Francisco? I 
thought you said Profesa. San Francisco seems to 
be quite a busy street." 

"But this isn't San Francisco; this is Aveneda 
Jaurez." 

"But, I thought you said " 

"So I did, but after you pass San Juan de Letran 
it is Aveneda Jaurez." 

"First it was Profesa, then San Francisco 

What is it after you go a Httle farther?" 

"After you pass the Iron Horse, it is the Paseo. 
Don't you name your streets that way in the States ?" 
elevating her nose. "You Americans are so critical." 

"But, Maria, I haven't said a word." 

"Ah, but your face, your face, Eliza; you don't 
have to say what you think." 

"Well, Maria, you will have to admit that it is a 
little discouraging, to say the least, to a stranger." 

Etheldreda and I being new to the business, ap- 
pealed to several policemen which shows how really 
new we were. Now, there is no law in Mexico 
against applying to a policeman, but nobody ever 
thinks of doing such a thing, and, poor man, he has 
his hands full trying to manage the half-drunken 
populacho ; then it cannot be wondered at that he 
does not learn the city, as he changes his beat every 
day. He is willing enough to help you, and tell all 
he knows — and a great deal he does not know. He 
is, I believe, the most ambiguous person living. If 
you ask him where a certain street is he will tell you 
to go in a certain direction — ten or twelve blocks, 
then "poco mas" (a little more). 

35 



OBIi^a an ft ©tftelDteDa 



Ethel dreda and I came to say in time that we did 
not mind the ten or twelve blocks at all, it was the 
''poco mas" that made us footsore and weary. 

''Well, after three weeks devoted exclusively to 
house-hunting, and with the assistance of two dozen 
or more friends, we found a lovely little vivienda 
just under the shadow of the great San Fernando 
church, and overlooking the Alameda. And he who 
would not be charmed with it must possess a carking 
soul indeed. 

Though our vivienda was small we could boast of 
two numbers, which is not an uncommon occur- 
rence. Many years ago the city was numbered some- 
thing in accordance with the naming of the streets, 
I imagine; that is, when the street changed its name, 
the numbering began all over again. In somewhat 
recent years the authorities attempted to renumber 
the city something in accordance with those of our 
land, but Mexicans do not like changes ; what they did 
yesterday, they want to do to-day, and to-rriorrow ; so, 
generally speaking, the old number was continued 
in use, though the houses are still adorned with the 
new. It is not uncommon to see on one side of a 
massive entrance No. 3016, while on the other side 
will shine out at you No. 2. We got a few pieces 
of inexpensive furniture from the people who were 
moving out; then, for a few weeks we haunted the 
pawn shops, and some Mexican friends found several 
more pieces for us. With two or three improvised 
couches, supporting piles of cushions, our pottery, 
Indian blankets, pictures, and curios, we had as dainty 
a little apartment as could be found within hearing 
of our church bells. But the very best thing about 
it all was that I found Francisca. Francisca was one 

36 



in ^ttico 



of the chambermaids at a place where I had been 
boarding. 

During a visit to Cuernavoca she and the landlady 
had quarreled and Francisca had gone, nobody knew 
where. I was almost in tears when I heard what 
had happened, though I did not wonder, as Francisca 
was a lady. 

Then began my long search for the vanished girl; 
up and down the streets, through the Zocalo, the 
Alameda and in the street cars, I looked to find her. 
Many a gentle, blue-rebozoned Muchacha have I 
stopped in all these places and asked, ''Have you seen 
Francisca? Do you know where she has gone?" 

"Francisca ?" they would repeat in open-eyed won- 
der; "what Francisca? No; but will surely help you 
find her." 

So, one day just after we moved in I was going 
down a tiny side street. The short dusk of a tropical 
day was slipping into a starless night. It had rained 
nearly all day, one of those depressing, spiritless kind 
of rains, when. the whole heavens seem to be weep- 
ing. Francisca was just passing through a dingy 
door, going to her room, the most cheerless, win- 
dowless, dampest hole of a room you ever saw. I called 
to her just as she was passing out of sight, and the 
people going by stopped to watch, as we stood cry- 
ing and laughing all at once, she clinging to my hands. 
I can't tell exactly why, but I . think I love Francisca 
better than almost anybody in Mexico. 

Well, I took her home with me that night, and 
Etheldreda and I could never have run our little 
launch without her. 

Etheldreda was standing in the balcony one day 
looking, with a little pucker between her eyes, across 

37 



slt^ 



OBIi^a anD OBtftelliretia 



the hot, white street and down the cool length of the 
banana walk in the Alameda. A squad of soldiers 
clanked with their sabres down the street and around 
the corner out of sight. A pale boy with a soft, dis- 
consolate voice sang out "La fl-o-r de San J-u-a-n, 
La — flor-de San Juan" as he drew some dampened 
grape leaves over his fragrant waxlike flowers; while 
the bugle call of a gendarme way off down the street 
denoted the hour of four. 

As Etheldreda leaned, in pensive attitude, against 
the balcony railing and hummed a little air from "La 
Boheme," a tall young American, dressed in gray, 
came, with long, rapid strides, out of the Alamedo 
and halted, with surprise, as he glanced up at the 
balcony. 

"Why, howdy do," he began in evident pleasure. 

"How do you do?" 

The response came from the balcony a little coldly. 
Pause 

"Are you well?" 

"Oh, very well, thank you." Longer pause 

"Did you — did you get in all right from the picnic 
the other day?" 

"Why, good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter," I said as I 
crossed over from a downtown car. "Won't you come 
up? Etheldreda and I have gone to housekeeping 
since we saw you in the bosque." 

"Well, I think you have," he agreed with cordial 
surprise, as he looked about our cozy quarters. "Say, 

this is great. Where did you get all these queer 

I suppose I should say artistic things?" 

"Oh, we poked around in pawn shops and such 
places." 

"Been loafing around all the afternoon waiting for 

38 



in ^ttito 



a fellow, one of the reporters on the Imparcial," went 
on the visitor as he dropped with his one hundred and 
eighty pounds into one of our rather frail bamboo 
chairs that stood in the corridor. 

"Have you ?" I remarked as I looked at my beloved 
chair with much trepidation. 

"Did he tell you in a very positive manner he would 
come ?" 

"Yes, told me to expect him without fail." 

"And you waited for him? Well, that shows you 
have not been here long. 

"It is frequently disconcerting and sometimes even 
amusing the nonchalance with which a Mexican 
treats an engagement. If one of them tells you he 
will be around at a certain time, you may not be 
particularly surprised if he comes. If he says he 
will be there, nothing preventing, you need not look 
for him, and if he says he will positively come, you 
may, with safety, put on your hat and go out, as you 
may be sure he won't show up." 

"That is funny, isn't it?" remarked Mr. Carpenter, 
looking around to see if Etheldreda were not going 
to make her appearance. 

"Sometimes it is, and sometimes it is otherwise," 
I repHed as the door opened and Etheldreda, in pale 
blue batiste, her red-brown hair showing like an 
aureola about her face, trailed out and sank into the 
bamboo chair Mr. Carpenter had, with polite discre- 
tion, discarded for a stronger one. Etheldreda looks 
seraphic in pale blue, and she knows it. Just leave 
it to a daughter of Mother Eve to find out a thing 
of that kind, and I wish you might have seen the 
smile she bestowed on our visitor, and after her 
freezing reception, too. But there is no accounting 

39 



Clfja anti ©tfjeinteDa 



for Etheldreda — I think the episode of the blue silk 
garter still rankled in her mind. 

''Have you succeeded in discovering any mummies 
and ruins, and — facts. I believe it's facts you are 
looking up especially," remarked Etheldreda, v^ith a 
provoking smile, and critically examining the scarab 
in her bracelet. 

'*Oh, yes," replied the young American, with a 
fresh, hearty laugh, *'but you turned me down hard 
at the bosque that day. Wouldn't tell me a thing about 
the convent." 

"Well, I don't think I have really remembered one 
fact since I've been here. I don't care for them. 
I like the spooky stories, and the legends and love 
tales." 

"They are all right, too. Beat facts, only when 
you are sending stuif back to the firm. I could listen 
to a lot of stories and love tales now, if you'd tell 
me some. I am just in the mood for them," and 
he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. 
"Yes, I saw a lot of the old chaps, mummies, you 
know, in the panteon at Guanajuato; great old fel- 
lows ; then I've visited the ruins of Mitla and Xochi- 
calco, and next week am going to Palenque. Got 
some fine snap-shots while I was out — I'm rather good 
at such things," he added modestly. 

"It must be fine to see all those places," remarked 
Etheldreda with more enthusiasm than she had yet 
shown. 

"Oh, yes it is, rather; especially if you chance to 
run across some charming young ladies," with an 
expansive smile and bow. "I think I shall always 
like those ruins in the bosque. 

"Say," he called back when halfway down the 
40 



in Mexico 



steps, "Miss Etheldreda, did you say you wanted me 
to bring those snap-shots around to-morrow for you 
to look over?" 

And they both laughed as young Carpenter ran 
down the steps and into the street. 



41 



€1153 anD Ctfteldteua 



CHAPTER VIII 

In the olden times, Mexico City was not the place 
of magnificent palaces, of historic temples with 
graceful minarets and hovering domes, nor yet of 
winding thoroughfares, or costly public buildings ; in- 
stead it was a little Indian village, of mud and rush 
houses, stuck in the quagmire of the Texcoco Lake 
region. Lordly pelicans stalked critically about, or 
viewed their mud-ensconced feet with supernatural 
wisdom. The migratory loon took flight from marsh 
to swamp, and thousands of ducks and geese made 
the air black with frequent passages. It was after 
long wandering over plateau and mountain that the 
Aztecs were guided to settle at this spot, so the legend 
tells us, by auspicious omens; for here had they be- 
held the sight of an eagle sitting on a nopol-cactus 
eating a live snake. Because of this omen the city 
was called Tenochtitlan, but was afterwards changed 
to Mezitli in honor of the war god, hence the name 
Mexico. 

Next to the cathedral the most interesting building 
in the capitol city is, perhaps, the old viceregal resi- 
dence, now called the national palace. This build- 
ing is interesting not only from a historical standpoint, 
but for its present uses. It contains most of the 
government offices, and is the repository for the ar- 
chives and meteorological exhibits, is riiagnificently 

42 



in S^mto 



furnished, and contains some noted paintings by Mi- 
randa and native artists. 

On great feast days the President and Mrs. Diaz 
hold receptions here, and frequently he watches a 
military parade from the balconies. 

To the north of the palace and apparently con- 
nected with it, are the post office and National Museum 
of Natural History, and antiquities. Some of these 
antiquaries are of priceless value, the most inter- 
esting among them being the calendar and sacrificial 
stones. 

Not far away from this fascinating neighborhood 
is the school of art, in which are large brass and 
iron foundries, and just beyond is the church of the 
Jesuits. 

Around the beautiful little plaza San Domingo, are 
grouped the various buildings of the convent that 
bears the name, the old Spanish inquisition, now 
the School of Medicine, and the custom house. On 
our way over we passed the exquisite church of 
Santa Tereza which, though small, has the most im- 
posing dome in the city. 

Just down the street from the museum is the Na- 
tional picture gallery of San Carlos, said to be the 
finest in America. The building is, in itself, the 
dream of an artist, being of dull red stone with faded 
gray trimmings. All the old masters are represented 
there, especially those of the Flemish and Florentine 
schools. Not the least among them, by any means, 
are some of the paintings done by native artists, 
the scenes of war and pictures of war heroes are 
especially fine, most of them being terribly and 
graphically true to life. There, too, is found the 

43 



(Eli^a anD ©tftelDreDa 



famous Las Casas, by Felix Parra, and several of the 
best works of Velasguez and Millais. 

Lying to the west of the Cathedral are the flower 
market and the national pawn shop, both being places 
of never-ending interest and delight to the tourist and 
curio-hunter. At the flower market are piled cartloads 
of marguerites, poppies, roses, pansies, forget-me- 
nots, lilies; all the world of color, beauty and frag- 
rance, from the floating gardens up the Viga, and 
from those around the city. For fifty or seventy- 
five cents, you may buy a whole armful of American 
Beauty or La France roses, and for a dollar or two, 
there can be bought a wreath of jessamine a yard in 
diameter. 

And the pawn shop ! Well, you will have to go to 
Mexico to see for yourself, because I could not, in a 
year, tell you all that is found within its walls. 

Just over the way from the Zocalo, and around the 
corner from the old viceregal palace, hidden away be- 
hind tall buildings and the too prying eyes of the 
world, is the queerest little corner of a place you 
ever saw. The natives call it El Volador, but to the 
English-speaking community it is known as the 
Thieves' Market. In those days when Spain domi- 
nated the land, the Vice Reyes spent many hours 
here in their favorite sport of kite flying. When, 
however, they were banished from the country, and 
the practice fell into disuse, the garden was turned 
into a market place of a very disreputable nature. 
Frequently those who go out in search of stolen goods 
locate them at the Thieves' Market. 

A pious Indian goes into a church to pray, his 
sombrero pulled down low over his head, his scar- 
let zarape wrapped close about him. He reverently 

44 



in 9@exico 



kneels by a sacred altar and the next morning a 
brass candelabra, or a pictured saint appears among 
the heterogeneous collection in his little booth. Not 
everything found here is contraband goods, by any 
means, though many times it is, if it has any value. 
One corner is devoted to cheap sombreros, straw mats, 
and the narrow-pointed Indian shoes. In another, 
Mexican emblems are displayed ; while in other booths 
may be found prayer books, crucifixes, rosaries and 
old iron. But, sometimes hidden away among all 
this, there may be found some article of great value 
that can be purchased for a song; a rare piece of 
china, a bit of exquisite jewelry, a carved ivory, or 
mother-of-pearl jewelry box, or a beautiful painting. 



45 



(Bli^n anD (EtDelDreDa 



CHAPTER IX 

There are, perhaps, few countries in the world so 
thoroughly steeped in tales of poetic and mytho- 
logical fancy, or abounding in romantic and legend- 
ary lore as Mexico. Some of these legends hark back 
to the days of Maximillian with his stilted dignity, his 
consequential piety, and his unhappy queen. Others 
trace their origin to the reign of Cortez and his ra- 
pacious legions, while many go back to the misty ages 
and the days of the Toltecs and Quiche-Mayas, fad- 
ing away into the twilight of fable and song. Always 
a country in which the imagination of the populace 
was easily fired, in which the supernatural and un- 
real find ready credence, it is easy to divine that tales 
of love and adventure are lavishly woven with the 
historic and true. Cities and hamlets, mountains and 
rivers, churches and residences, each has its tale of 
fact and fancy, and no street in the world perhaps 
can boast of more of these stories than San Fran- 
cisca. The conquering and the vanquished have 
marched through its length. It has witnessed scenes 
of war and bloodshed, revels of love and adventure, 
plots and counterplots. There are as many stories 
and legends concerning it as there are cobbles in its 
pavement. It is only a short street, just a few blocks, 
sheltered in between walls of handsome masonry; 
greatly changed, yet much the same, as on that dark 

46 



in ^mco 



night when Miramon was led a captive through its 
length and on to Queretero and death. 

The Paseo is really the only creditable drive about 
the city, and is as redolent of romance and legend 
as the highways are of flowers. It lies like a shimmer- 
ing white ribbon, with its dull green border of Euca- 
lyptus between Chapultepec and the city. It dimples 
and smiles, showing soft and seductive under the 
glow of its arch lights, and the lace work of the 
dancing leaves. It whispers stories of yesterday and 
to-day — stories that must be whispered, yet stories 
that all the world likes to hear. 

There is laughter and gesture, the meeting of eyes, 
the signaled appointment, the perfume from patio and 
corsage. And the world, the debauchee and courtesan, 
sedate mothers and blushing daughters, drive up and 
down in glittering equipages, up and down and inter- 
mingle. 

''This street," said the Man in Gray, during one 
of our rambles about the city, ''is called Cruz Verde 
on account of a very pretty romance that took place 
here many years ago. It was during the reign of 
the cruel Spaniards in this country, and two of their 
governors had tyrannized over the city till a revolt 
caused their removal. There was a great fiesta in 
course of progress. The city was gay with flying 
banners, and streamers of red, white, and green. 
The houses were decked with flowers and palms, 
and every balcony bore its bouquet of young girls, 
each arrayed in her most becoming costume, with 
faces radiant and smiling, their black hair half hidden 
by the lace mantilla — the most bewitching of all head 
coverings — ^looking down on the scene about them. 
In the balcony of one of the most pretentious houses 

47 



(lBH5a anil (Btbtimtna 



was a young girl who attracted the attention of every 
swain in the long procession, by the unusual beauty of 
her face and a glory of red-gold hair. 

*'Among the men who passed the house that day 
was a gallant young Spaniard, who gayly rode near 
the head of the procession. Naturally, too, his eye 
was drawn by the magnet of the red-gold hair, and 
when he had' passed with the train through the city 
and on to Chapultepec, he returned the moment he 
was dismissed to seek again the fair occupant of 
the balcony. It seems, so the story beautifully runs, 
that the lady of the red-gold hair had been attracted 
by the handsome young Spaniard as he by her; but, 
sad to relate, there was an unsurmountable barrier 
between them — they were of different social rank. It 
is the old story of love laughing at locksmiths," went 
on the Man in Gray. "The mother of the girl with 
the red-gold hair fell ill, and thus her vigilance was 
relaxed, and the anxious lover cleverly managed to 
smuggle a note to the object of his adoration. With 
the astuteness born of uncertainty, and foreseeing 
this might be the only opportunity he would have of 
communicating with the sefiorita, he took the wise 
precaution of providing a signal code. 'If you return 
my love,' he wrote, 'put a green crucifix on the bal- 
cony, and by that token I shall be made happy. But 
if, alas ! you cannot love me, place instead a white 
crucifix, where it will meet my waiting gaze, and cast 
me down in sorrow.' The name this little street 
has borne for more than three centuries — Cruz 
Verde — bears testimony to the fact that it was the 
green crucifix that greeted the eyes of the young 
Spaniard." 

48 



in ^mto 



"You have heard the legend of El Puente del 
Clerigo?" said the Man in Gray. 

We were lingering one perfect afternoon, near the 
close of April, in Chapultepec Park. He had come 
upon me as I leaned over a little rustic bridge, look- 
ing with listless interest into the gray-green waters of 
the lake where were reflected, in bold outline, the 
giant cypress trees growing on the several natural 
islands and on the shore. These trees were heavy 
with the weight of centuries, as also were the lonely 
weeping willows bending in mournful submission, to 
the elements and the flight of time. 

"Are you fishing for dreams with a stray sun- 
beam?" he asked me as I smiled up at him. 

"No," I replied, "I never have to go fishing for 
dreams, never. They come all too readily to me as 
it is. All my life I've had to fight away the dreams 
to make place for the real and natural." 

"Oh, yes, but what would Hfe be without our 
dreams? A poor, bare thing, indeed, just like that 
rosebush there, if it were shorn of all but its branches 
and thorns, or the rugged mountain yonder under the 
castle, if it wxre robbed of all its wild untamed ver- 
dure, or of its gay vagrant colors. We must hold 
to our dreams if we let the real and natural, the 
material go, eh, Gringita?" he questioned as we 
dropped upon the little, narrow, backless seat on the 
Poet's walk near the lake, with the rose petals van- 
ishing into the green. The place was all aglow with 
the warmth and luxuriance of the late afternoon sun. 
Great swarms of yellow butterflies danced about in 
the golden glow, or undulated in waves back into the 
shadow. Heliotropes, heavy with blossom and per- 

49 



(BU^n ana aBtftelDtetia 



fume, trained low on the ground, while the La 
Frances and jacqueminots drooped languorously under 
the ardent kisses of the sun. One of the keepers 
of the park, dressed in his picturesque suit of gray, 
strolled slowly by, his hands behind his back, looking 
patiently at some boys inclined to mischief, who floated 
idly about in one of the small boats on the lake. A 
young Aztec, tall, lithe and quick-sighted as a deer, 
came trotting down the walk calling, in high, clear 
notes, ''Fresas, fresas, de Irapauta, fresas, senorita?" 
and he held out a basketful of strawberries for my 
inspection. I shook my head and he passed on, his 
voice dying in musical decadence outside the castle 
gates. The zeuzontl had a plaintive note, as he sang 
to his mate in the bower of my Lady Nasturtium, and 
a ruesenior perched on a swaying acacia, sang a 
vibrating lyric to a new moon come over early and 
showing dimly in an amethyst sky just over the euca- 
lyptus trees bordering the drive to the city. The 
clanging of the church bells at Tacubaya sounded 
faint and remote, and from far afield came the sound 
of the reveille of the cadets at practice. The sun's 
last rays shot like flaming rapiers through the glade, 
the violets smiled up at us from the shadows, the rose 
petals vanished into the green. 

'Tt is a gruesome tale, that of the priest," the Man 
in Gray went on after a long pause. "But there are 
those who love it for its gruesomeness, and believe 
in its accordingly. 

"It was during those unhappy years when Mexico 
was ruled by Vice Reys, from Spain, there lived in 
the eastern part of the city a priest by the name 
of Don Juan de Nava. The blood of the royalty of 
Spain flowed in his veins, it is said, and this was 

50 



in ^mto 



not difficult of belief when one saw with what lordly- 
grace he carried his tall, manly figure, and with what 
dignified courtesy he talked with those with whom he 
came in contact. The story came to be told that 
he had loved an Andalusian maiden, but that her 
father had compelled her to marry a knight of the 
court who was old, but very rich. The day the wed- 
ding took place, however, she had repaired to a vme- 
covered arbor, where she kept tryst with her young 
lover and had killed herself with a small dagger, a 
gift from de Nava. The next day he left Spam, 
taking with him only the memory of a face and of an 
unhappy love. It was thus he came to take priestly 
vows, and to live in the humble little house by the 
Traza. He was a holy man, just and brave, and his 
days were filled with acts of benevolence and charity. 
With the poor he shared his small fortune, he visited 
and cared for them in pestilence and want, and m the 
hour of death; to the rich and influential he showed 
himself equally kind and loving. They came to 
to him with their confessions, even the bishop and 
canons, and sought his help and advice on questions 
of religion and state. .1.1, 

"One day as Don Juan passed out of the cathedral 
his quick ear caught the cry of a child and, turning, 
he saw a small, scantily clad little girl standing by 
the side of a beggar, who but halfway sheltered 
her with a ragged blue rebozo. The priest was struck 
by the beauty of the pinched little face, and of the 
pathos of her cry, and taking her up in his arms car- 
ried her to his home. Studying and dreaming under 
the acacias, gathering and twining the roses, hibiscus 
and heliotrope into wreaths to crown herself queen 
of all the flowers, playing with her queer little toys, 

51 



(Bli^a anD (CtftelDteDa 



and the many things of pottery bought at the booths, 
and being rocked to sleep by old Ana, the house- 
keeper, she passed her childhood in happy content. 
Juan loved her as his own child, treating her as such, 
and with great care and vigilance he guarded her 
from the outside world. 

"As the years flew by, Beatrix de Milan, for such 
was her name, grew in beauty and rare graces, till 
she had reached womanhood. When she went to 
church, escorted by old Ana, the youths on the street 
looked at her as though they had seen a vision. The 
birds came at her call, and, perching on her head 
and shoulder, ate from her hand; the gold fish in 
the little glorietta in the middle of the patio permitted 
her to fondle them, and the flowers in the jars 
bordering the corridor grew under her care as they 
never had for old Ana. 

"One day as she sat on the edge of the glorietta, 
a dove came, and, alighting on her shoulder, be- 
gan to nibble at the dulce she held between her Hps. 
The young girl laughed in glee, while the priest and 
Ana stood looking on in smiling contentment. 

"There chanced to be passing just at this time Don 
Domingo Saraza, the wealthiest, handsomest, most 
dissolute man of the city. He looked through the 
open door of the saguan, and, beholding the scene, 
stood for many seconds spellbound. From that hour 
he haunted the little house by the Traza, trying, by 
all his subtle, fascinating devices, to win the love of 
Beatrix. Juan de Nava had himself once been a 
man of the world, so he knew him for what he was 
and foiled all of his efforts to steal the girl away. 
Beatrix was torn between love and honor, but she 
would not desert the man who had been more than a 

52 



in 9@enco 



father to her, and she knew Saraza would never 
make her his wife. Hers would be only a life of 
shame. At times she was ready to yield, but the priest 
kept watch day and night, and it was only on rare 
occasion that Saraza could gain an audience with 
the girl. 

"As the days went by, and still Beatrix had not 
been won, there sprang up in his heart a bitter, cruel 
hatred for the old priest. Not far from Don Juan's 
house was a little bridge which he often crossed going 
about on his errands of mercy. Saroza knew that he 
often passed that way, and, waiting for him there one 
dark, rainy night, he plunged a poniard, in which 
gleamed a brilliant ruby, into the skull of the old 
man. Then, with a fiendish yell, threw the body into 
the sullen waters of the Traza. 

"Drunk with the blood of his victim, and his unholy 
love for the girl, he rushed to the house where she 
sat listening for the footsteps of her foster-father. 
Looking, with wild, cruel eyes, through the bars 
of the window, he said, 'He for whom you wait you 
wait in vain.* 

"Beatrix knew enough of the horrors of the time 
to understand all his words meant, and knowing that 
her folly had occasioned the crime, she fell conscience- 
stricken upon the floor. It is said she spent the re- 
mainder of her days in doing deeds of mercy. And, 
strange to say, Saraza was filled with remorse, yet 
he tried to kill thought and memory by gaming, de- 
bauchery and vice. One day as he sat in the plaza, 
his head bowed in bitter retrospection, a beautiful 
woman, with face half hidden behind a veil, came 
and beckoned to him, 'Meet me on the bridge at twelve 
to-night,' she said in soft low tones. Saraza had 

53 



(Eli^a anD OBtftelDreDa 



never been to the bridge on the Traza since that awful 
night, but though his heart quailed, he had never re- 
fused the call of a beautiful woman. So the appointed 
hour found him waiting there. For some time he 
stood and listened for the velvet footfall and seductive 
voice of the fair expected. He had not waited long, 
however, till, instead of these delightful sounds, there 
sprang up a sinister noise, a terrible groaning and 
rumbling in the begrimed waters beneath : then came 
a prolonged cry as of a soul in pain. Saraza stood 
frozen, almost inert for a short space, and then it 
seemed to him that his throat was clasped in a grasp 
of steel. In the morning all the world went out to 
see the horror that had been wrought, and there 
they found Saraza lying prone on the bridge, his throat 
held in the iron grasp of a skeleton, in the skull of 
which was a poniard, a ruby gleaming from the 
handle. That is the story of El Puente del Clerigo, 
a gruesome tale enough," concluded the Man in 
Gray. 

The sun, weary with running its course, dropped 
behind the distant mountains. A blood-red color 
throbbed in the sky, then faded into a tawny yellow. 

A young girl, daughter of one of the keepers near 
the adobe house among the periwinkle, burst into a 
wild, passionate love song. The night birds twittered 
uneasily. A breeze, soft as a lover's kiss stole through 
the trees caressingly, fanning brow and cheek. 

A new moon shone like a white disk over the castle, 
the stars showed pale and distant. The mystic sorcery 
of a tropical night was stealing down the valley, the 
rose petals vanishing into the green. 



54 



in Q^ttito 



CHAPTER X 

"Eliza, have you been to the flower market since 
the rainy season set in?" Etheldreda rushed into my 
room one day bubbHng forth all these italics in rapid 
succession. She was followed by an obsequious car- 
gador carrying a huge hamper of flowers on his 
closely cropped head. Her hazel eyes were smiling 
and joyous, a bright flush flamed in her usually rather 
pale cheeks. Tossing back the red-brown hair that 
waved, wind-blown, about her face, she sank into a 
chair with a little spent laugh. 

"Oh, yes," I quietly replied from the depth of a 
new magazine and my low bamboo chair. 

"No, you haven't!" returned Etheldreda with de- 
cision. "I'm positive you have not, Eliza, or you 

could not sit there in that unresponsive to be 

honest, Eliza, I must say, stupid way, and say, 'Oh, 
yes.' " 

"But, you see, my girlie," I replied without being 
in the least offended, "I have been through all those 
stages you are going through with now, you know; 
the enthusiasm, the disgust, the rapture, delight and 
repulsion, the ecstasies, and complaints, till at length 
I got back to normal again. And, besides," I went 
on, "I could never have bought all those flowers at 
one time, my money would have given out." 

"Oh, they didn't cost much. Some of them are 
ridiculously cheap, you know." 

55 



(Eli^a anD OBtftelDteDa 



I made no reply, as I well knew that my idea 
of "much" money would not accord with Etheldreda's, 
as she had been reared by an aunt who held the 
strings of her well-filled purse all too loosely, while 
I was one of six girls. 

Etheldreda took the flowers out of the basket and 
carefully arranged them around her on the floor: 
piles of corn flowers, stacks of marguerites, great 
bunches of poppies, and so on through the list. 
Kneeling before them like a vestal virgin before a 
shrine, she picked up now one bunch and now another, 
smelling, caressing and pressing her face tenderly 
against them. 

"When you are through with your worship you 
would better put them in water. Some of them, espe- 
cially the roses, are drooping their heads already," I 
suggested after a time. 

So Etheldreda proceeded to fill the wash basin — • 
and a wash basin is a wash basin in Mexico — the 
two pitchers, the tooth-brush holder, the chafing dish, 
the tea pot, pin tray, and all of my pottery I would 
permit her to use. Then she collected the remains 
together and sent them to a little sick boy across the 
street. 

But, anent the question of flowers, you ' should 
come to Mexico to see them in all their glorious 
splendor. Mere words cannot describe them. Roses, 
La Marques Marichal Neils, La Frances, lay their 
creamy clusters on the roofs, and drape the corridors, 
acacias, sweet olives and jessamines, than which noth- 
ing is sweeter. Great summer houses embowered in 
plumbago and Martha Washington geraniums. Pop- 
pies, brilliant, intense, sending out their toxic per- 

56 



in 9@eiico 



fume, dyed with the very heart's blood of the burn- 
ing tropics. 

Some way I do not care for poppies as I do for 
the other flowers — the gaudy amapohs. For a brief 
season they flaunt their vagrant colors, then throw- 
ing off their soporific perfume they scatter their 
petals, droop their heads, and, drooping thus, they 
die. They seem some way, to tell of unholy love, and 
of broken vow^s, and bleeding hearts. 

Out in the gardens there are roses and marguerites 
grown into trees, violets, forget-me-nots and sweet 
peas, as fresh and as sweet as a morning in June, 
exhaling each its ow^n exquisite fragrance. Beds bor- 
dered with the most varied and gorgeous colors, in 
the midst of which heliotrope trails low its weight 
of purple blossoms, and tuberoses droop, heavy with 
perfume and its waxen crown. And the orchids! 
The rarest and most fantastic of nature's creation in 
the flower world, is found here in the perfection of 
its indigene elements. Some of them opalescent, like 
the pale sea mist, others pinkish-mauve tan, with 
heart of richest Indian red, white, wdth veins as blue 
as the sky, and many other indescribable tints and 
tones. Once I saw one of these strange flowers 
growing like the flaming hilt of a poniard from a 
cypress in Chapultepec Park, and many times I have 
seen them attached to a chirimoya, or guava, looking 
like some fanciful bird of brilliant plumage. While 
many varieties are exquisitely beautiful, others to- 
gether with many air plants, are w^eird, uncanny, 
abortive, reminding one of some strange and shape- 
less animal. 

To me, one of the most picturesque and spec- 

57 



CU^a anD ©tftelDteoa 



tacular of all Mexican fiestas is the Battle of Flow- 
ers, the principal part of which takes place on the 
Viga. The Viga is a canal built more than a thou- 
sand years ago, so the chroniclers say, to conduct 
water from Lake Xochimilco to the city. Bordering 
the Viga, and some miles up from the city are the 
chinampas, or floating gardens, in which are grown 
many of the vegetables and flowers seen in the city 
markets. These gardens do not really float, nor ever 
did, but their construction was begun many hundreds 
of years ago by the peons sticking tufts of grass and 
pieces of earth and debris into firm places, in the 
marshes on each side of the Viga, and as the years 
went by these pieces of tuft collected more residue 
till they became tillable. On the third of February 
of each year the world goes out to the Viga to witness, 
what is called the Battle of Flowers, though it really 
is not a battle at all, but an old world enchantment. 
All the little canoes that float up and down the Viga 
are decked out in holiday array. Each is rowed by 
an Indian dressed in white, and wearing a huge straw 
sombrero, who stands at the helm propelling the boat 
with one long pole, gondolier fashion. These little 
boats are a fantastic picture in themselves, lending 
an indefinable charm to the gay panorama. Some 
of them are decked out in yellow and red — Spanish 
colors — others in red, white and green — the Mexican 
colors — while others are festooned in natural flowers. 
The awnings put up for the occasion are embellished 
with coverings and flying streamers of bright-colored 
paper, or adorned with hangings of roses, marguerites 
and other flowers. For a few dollars you can hire 
one of these canoes for the morning or afternoon, 
and early in the day hundreds are afloat under their 

S8 



in ^tnco 



gaudy awnings. The Indians, who rent the floating 
gardens, bring down loads of flowers and vegetables 
in the large, flat canoes. On one are piles of brilliant, 
appetizing radishes, stacks of the whitest white onions 
and celery, squashes, cauliflower, all arrayed with a 
view to color and effects. Following in the wake 
of this canoe is another filled with every variety of 
tropical flowers. These boats are a part of the show, 
though their owners turn many a centavo by selling 
their contents to the hungry, happy throng. 

There goes a boat load of girls in Spanish dress, 
bright satin skirts, bodices furbished with broad 
sashes, and long strings of beads. Everybody sings 
in Mexico, and sings well, and as this boat load of 
girls goes by, they smilingly toss a chaplet of flowers 
into your boat and continue singing their roundelay. 
Over there is a crowd of young men in charro cos- 
tume with flying red ties, and there another of Span- 
ish knights of the fifteenth century, who twang their 
guitars and make violent love to you, and every now 
and then a boat load of boys and girls singing college 
and love songs and flying the stars and stripes, will 
glide past. 

On the shores are thousands of people walking 
up and down, throwing confetti, eating dulces, rad- 
ishes, or long stalks of celery. Sad-browed women 
in black or blue rebozos, boys of the upper class in 
Paris clothes, Indian boys in long, narrow, cotton 
trousers and shirts, hatless, shoeless, looking on with 
stoic unsmiling faces. 

The spectacle is picturesque and gay beyond de- 
scription, its intense mediaeval flavor adding a double 
zest and attractiveness. The brightness, the color, 
the noiseless, gliding boats, the music, flowers, the 

59 



dBli^a anO CtbelQteDa 



play of the sunlight, the surge of the waters, the 
capricious wind, beautiful maids, and ^ handsome 
youths, the light from lambent eyes — this is the Bat- 
tle of Flowers. 

The fruits of Mexico, as do the flowers and vege- 
tables, form an interesting array; there are apples, 
peaches, pears, apricots, and many varieties of ber- 
ries from the north land. Oranges, lemons, bananas, 
limes, of semi-tropical growth. Besides these are 
many varieties peculiar only to the tropics. One of 
the most plentiful is the spicy, pungent guava, dis- 
liked by most, but eagerly devoured by a few. There 
are chicopotes, looking like miniature pumpkins. 
Chirimoyas, sometimes called ice cream fruit, being 
about as big as a cocoanut, and having creamy, deli- 
cate meat. The prime favorite, however, is the mango, 
a kind of Burbank cross between a pear and a banana 
in appearance. It has a tough, yellow skin, with a 
blush on one side like a pear, a large seed, and juicy, 
delicious meat. The taste for mangoes does not come 
naturally, but in time is easily and surely acquired, 
the only objection being in the difficulty of keeping 
them stationary while you eat them. The Mexicans 
have mango forks that they spear them with, but 
Americans, generally, do not use them, so manage 
the best they can. The fruit frequently flies out of 
your hand and goes bounding across the table on 
to the floor, or perhaps into the soup bowl of your 
next neighbor. The juice bursts through your lips, 
trickles down and drops oflf your chin ; it runs through 
your fingers and goes coursing down your hands, 
but it is worth all this. There is about many of them 
a taste of turpentine, a kind of refined flavor, sug- 
gestive of all the conifers. This does not sound tempt- 

60 



in &^t^ico 



ing, I know, but you have only to try one to be con- 
vinced. 

Frank says the only objection he has to mangoes 
is that it is not always convenient to eat them in a 
bathtub. 

EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY 

March 23rd. 

Went to the Alameda with Mrs. R and that 

dear baby this morning. How lovely everything is there 
now, but wish they had not put those stone seats 
around that middle glorietta. They are as cold and 
comfortless as charity. 

How very artistic these Mexicans are ! You notice 
it at every turn ; in the carvings, in the buildings, the 
setting of a statue, the arrangement of a flower bed. 
There is, underlying it all, a harmonious blending of 
colors, a poetic fancifulness, that seems to accord 
with the surroundings. One reason of the Aztec ideal- 
ism is because he uses the thing at hand ; the cactus on 
the desert, the flowers of the hot country, the native 
fruits, birds and animals, all appear in his accurate, 
and many times homely, representations. How indig- 
nant that gendarme was this morning when the little 
Indian boy rolled in the grass, though there were a 
lot of dogs— common curs — rolling all over it. 
^ The grass is for dogs, it seems, and not for poor 
Httle Indian boys, who live on dirt or stone floors all 
day and sleep on straw mats at night. Strange world ! 

March 30th. 

This is the queerest country I ever saw, in some 
respects. To-day I wandered through a little side 

61 



(Elija ana (Bthtlt^ttm 



street where they have some beautiful things displayed 
in the windows, and some of the oddest things and 
strangest collections one could imagine. In one store 
they had shoes and flower seeds, and in another 
canary birds and old iron, but that is not really strange 
in a country where they keep embroidery, silk and 
side combs in barber shops, and hair pins and rubber 
shoes in hardware stores. 

April 3rd. 

I stopped in that beautiful church just across from 
the Iron Palace, as I came up this morning. This 
church, by the way, is well worth a little of one's 
time ; not on the inside, perhaps, because there is noth- 
ing of particular interest there; but the outside is 
exquisite. It nestles among all those business houses 
with a very unobtrusive air, but there is a richness 
about the fading colors, and the figures that are set 
in curved niches are beautifully and artistically done. 

Saw a picture in the church that would have de- 
lighted the heart of an impressionist: an old man 
kneeling on the floor, a statue in bronze. His fea- 
tures were tense, strained, and leaning forward, with 
his eyes fixed on the crucifix — the Inri — ^in front; 
he seemed the impersonation of adoration. His faded 
coat hung on him in limp wrinkles, and a ragged old 
hat lay on the floor beside him. How I longed to 
paint him as he was ! 

There was evidently a funeral in operation, as a 
bier stood half concealed behind a screen, and an old 
priest in sagging vestment was saying mass before 
a little white altar. In the eastern transcept some 
nuns were singing the Office of the Dead, and from 

62 



itt 9@e3Eico 



a chapel in the rear there floated the odor of burning 
incense. 

April 5th. 

It is lilac-time in the home land, and very often 
my heart aches for a breath of their sweet, delicate 
perfume, and a sight of their purple splendor. The 
flowers are beautiful in Mexico, beautiful beyond 
compare, but somehow they do not appeal to me in 
the same way as those that bloom in the gardens at 
home. Perhaps it is the association, or the stories 
we read about them. But what a beautiful memory 
hangs about the lavender and rosemary of our grand- 
mothers, and how exquisite wxre the flowers of early 
maidenhood ! You will never forget the fragrance 
of the hyacinth sent by your first sweetheart. The 
years come and the years go, but the breath of a hya- 
cinth will always bring up the memory of those white 
waxen flowers, as they lay in the box among the pink 
cotton. 

When I was a child I thought it was the quintes- 
sence of aristocracy to have pink peonies and bleed- 
ing heart in your front yard. Didn't the Lees, Var- 
damians and Keebles have pink peonies and white 
Hlacs and bleeding heart, and what better proof could 
be wanted? 

April, fickle and feminine, is indulging in some of 
her most capricious trickeries up in that home land. 
To-day she is sobbing her heart out in a downpour 
of tears ; yesterday she wept in fitful gusts ; to-morrow 
she will be all smiles and caresses, gay, debonair, full 
of seductive allurements. And so on throughout the 
month, running the whole gamut of emotions, from 

63 



OBIi^a anir dBtfteiareSa 



the wildest, gayest abandon, to the lowest depth of 
complaining despair. 

Spring comes on shyly at first in that great North 
country. The snow disappears from the hilltops and 
trickles into the rills, the rills go on and swell the 
rivers. Vivid tufts of grass begin to show in the 
sheltered fence corners, and down by the meadow 
brook. Trillium, bloodroot and lady-slippers peep 
out to see what it is all about, and soon the woodlands 
are ablossom with dogwood and service berry. Those 
soft April tears sink deep into the earth, down be- 
neath the frost and the sod, and quicken into new life 
the tender roots that have nestled there. With coy 
reluctance they peep out to see what manner of world 
it is to which they are coming ; they behold its beauty, 
the grass, the flowers, the green, and all the gay colors 
with a glad, mad rush, and May, the amorous wight, 
sits embowered in her blossoms. 

April 15th. 

We went out this morning to see the killing of 
Judas, an operation that is gone through with each 
year on the Saturday preceding Easter. We saw sev- 
eral of him, and how grotesquely dressed he was! 
Frank says he does not wonder that Judas killed 
himself if he could have foreseen how he was to be 
caricatured. 

One had on bright blue trousers, gray coat with 
huge buttons, and a flaming red tie. Another was 
ensconsed in pale pink trousers, yellow coat and 
polkadot vest, not exactly one's idea of the garb of 
this Prince of Traitors, costumes such as the eye 
of man has not seen. 

Francisca tells me that when they hang a Judas 

64 



in ^ttico 



at a corner near a butcher shop he is filled with meat, 
and if the killing takes place near a bakery he is 
filled with bread. Then he is suspended on a string 
drawn across the street from house to house, and 
the howling mob proceed to dismember him. First 
a ghastly foot disappears, then a long, shapeless leg, 
till finally his body is broken and the contents begin 
to roll out. The poor people, crowded beneath, begin 
to scramble and fight like hungry animals to catch 
the pieces of bread or meat that shower around them. 

May 2nd. 

Got a letter from Helen yesterday. If there is one 
true and faithful soul in this world, and one who loves 
me, it is she. So glad she is going to send me some 
new clothes. I know the white dress is lovely. 

May 3d. 

The box has arrived and its contents filled me with 
joy. The w^hite dress is trimmed in shirred ruffles 
and butter-colored lace, with ribbons to match; there 
is a hat made entirely of violets, some shoes and stock- 
ings that would make Trilby green with envy, and 
two or three of the giddiest breakfast jackets. 

May 7th. 

There seems to be something innately cruel and 
vicious about these Indians. This afternoon while 
I was sitting in the Zocalo, a poor little lizard fell 
out of a tree and some men and boys began immedi- 
ately to torture it. I do not like lizards myself for 
close companionship, but I can't bear to see anything 
suffer. That sounds like an extract from a Sunday 
School book, but it's true just the same. Then, later, 

6s 



mi^a anD OBtbel arena 



as I came up the street a big, dirty peon kicked a 
poor little dog, and it was a nice, clean dog, too. 
It is true, it was yellow, but it could not help that. 
I always did think it showed a mean disposition to 
lay that up against a dog. 

May 20th. 

It is cool and delightful this morning, and Ethel- 
dreda and I spent some time in the Zocalo watching 
the passing crowd, and making friends with old 
Angela, who has a lace stand under the Portales. We 
also ran across Pelleas and Ettarre and made an en- 
gagement to go out to Guadalupe with them to- 
morrow. They are an old couple whom we discov- 
ered some time ago, and from the fitness of things, 
we appHed the above title to them. They came from 
the States in the early spring, and wherever we 
chanced to go, to the flower market, the plaza, the 
Thieves' Market, or walking on the Paseo, there, in 
a short time, would appear this amiable old couple. 
At first we smiled amusedly at each other; then we 
ventured a salutation, and before any of us realized 
it, we were warm friends. 

Ettarre has a sweet, gentle face with a complexion 
as fresh as a girl's, the most motherly voice, though 
she has never had any children, and beautiful snow- 
white hair. And Pelleas is just as tender and loving 
to her as on the first day they were married. That 
is really the reason we like him so much, though 
he is kind and attentive to every woman without be- 
ing at all obtrusive, and that his gentle attentions 
to Ettarre are not assumed for the outside world, her 
happy, contented face testifies. Then he knows every- 
thing, and is . so modest about it. Etheldreda says 

66 



in a^eiico 



she has not consulted a guide book, or art list, since 
they came. 

May 22nd. 

It is strange how these Mexicans love the beautiful 
and artistic. There is always a crowd of peons in 
front of Pellandinis. That picture of the crucifix 
they have there now is admirably done, but one can 
scarcely see it for the crowd. I remember when 
Fabres had his pictures on display at the art museum 
most of the people to be found there were from the 
lower classes. It is very different in the States. 

June 5th. 

I think the rainy season, or Time of Waters, as 
the Mexicans poetically say, has begun in real earnest, 
or at least one would judge so. The rain has been 
coming down in sluices for more than three days. 
You have read about the way the water comes down 
at Lodore, but that is nothing— not a circumstance— 
to the way it comes down in Mexico. You start 
out some fine afternoon, and as you go down the 
steps, you think possibly you would better take your 
umbrella, not that it is going to rain, but it is a kind 
of a habit one acquires. After a time, however, you 
will, perchance, see a skim of mist coming gently up 
over the sky, and away off in some indefinite kind of 
place one may see through a street that leads to the 
mountains, a purposeless-looking cloud. But, sad to 
relate, this cloud gives no warning ; there are no pre- 
monitory rumblings, no soft swift gusts of wind, 
flashes of lightning, nor any of those things one has 
learned to believe should accompany a well-ordered 
rain. All at once, when you are most unsuspecting, 

67 



(Eli^a anti OEtftelDteaa 



and when your mind is most on pleasure bent, a few 
spatters will fall, and before you can seek refuge in 
a patio — anybody's patio — it seems that the sky, the 
clouds, the whole atmosphere, has melted into a soak- 
ing, deluging rain. 

June 24th. 

This day is little reckoned in most parts of the 
world, but here in Mexico it ranks among the most 
important of the whole two months of feast days. 
For some cause, it is the day everybody takes a bath, 
and I fear — tell it not in Gath! — that it is the only 
day on which some of them bathe. 

The real thing to do is to get up at three o'clock 
in the morning and take an ice-cold bath, and the 
saying goes that you will thereafter be always young 
and beautiful. I presume that I am too skeptical 
in my nature to try it, however much I should like 
to attain that end. Francisca says, though, that her 
mother said that a friend told her, that she knew of a 
lady who once tried it, and that she was so beautiful 
afterwards that everybody stopped to gaze at her as 
she stood in the balcony. 

The ecclesiastical reason given for the observance 
of the day is said to be the anniversary of the day 
on which John the Baptist baptized in the river Jor- 
dan. I am unprepared, however, to certify it. 

The bath houses all over the city are decorated with 
flowers and palms, the band plays all day, as the 
crowd waits to be served. On leaving the bath house 
you are presented with a bouquet of flowers, or a 
string of pears, though nobody seems to know what 
connection there is between pears and the river 
Jordan. 

68 



in Q^eiico 



July nth. 

Have been trying to read some Spanish novels 
lately, but it seems to me they are all pretty much 
the same. A rather disconnected account of an un- 
equal battle between Cupid and an irate father, in 
which the irate father generally comes off victor. 
The heroine then contracts a loveless marriage and 
enters into a commonplace, uneventful life, or does 
the other thing, and lives with the man she loves 
without marriage. In either case it seems that her 
life is colorless, and lacking in any vital interest, 
and some way leaves one feeling very depressed, 
just as though something were going to happen. The 
Man in Gray says there are no such things as premo- 
nitions, though; that if you feel them coming on to 
take a pill, soak your feet in hot water and go to 
bed early. 

July 15th. 

Just read "El Sacrificio de Eliza," and fear I shall 
not live long. 

July 17th. 

Have just found something that I scribbled on an 
envelope, and I know it must be something very 
interesting if I could just read it. Am sure the world 
will be the loser. My family think I write dread- 
fully, but you know I rather like my chirography, for 
this one reason, at least, it isn't like anybody's else 
IVe ever seen, not even Shakespeare's. I sometimes 
think of a man I heard about years ago, when I try to 
read something I had written previously. This man 
was accustomed to remark that no one knew what 
he had written but himself and God. One day he 

69 



(JBIi^a anD dBtftelDreDa 



picked up a bit of scribbling, and being unable to 
make out a word of it, he added below, "Nobody 
knows what I have written but God and He won't 
tell." 

September ist. 

Now, all of my friends thought that the first thing 
I would write them when coming to Mexico would 
be an account of a bull fight, but the fact is I have 
never yet seen one. The Man in Gray kindly tells me 
that any time I make up my mind to go he is at my 
command. But some way the exact time has never 
come when I felt I was equal to it. In the first place 
bull fights always come on Sunday, and some way 
I just could not reconcile the two. I suppose it's my 
Presbyterian conscience. You know I have discov- 
ered that one of the most inconvenient things with 
which to go a-touring is a Presbyterian conscience. 
Of course, we may do things just as bad as going 
to bull fights on Sunday, but we have not been taught 
to think so. But just to think of a bull fight any 
time gives me the shivers. The uncontrolled ex- 
citement, the howling frenzy, the abandon of human 
beings to the delight in blood and carnage; the poor 
wounded and dying animals that look with appealing 
or defiant eyes at the merciless faces above, all pre- 
sent a picture to my mind's eye at once inexpressibly 
revolting and cruel. Fuentes, the very prince of bull 
fighters, has been in Mexico this winter, and Solomon 
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of him. 
Purple and gold lace, crimson and jewels, and all 
betopped by a sombrero, so expensive and over- 
shadowing, so tall and elegant, and all embroidered 
in gold and bestudded with gems. A small fortune 

70 



m ^tmo 



in itself. Elheldreda and I were honored by a pro- 
found obeisance and a dazzling smile from him one 
day as we were walking down the Paseo, and he 
driving by in a glittering victoria. Then we saw 
him again one evening even in greater splendor. It 
was at the Maison Doree after the opera, and much 
of the fashionable world was abroad. People by 
twos or threes strolled in and critically selected a table. 
There were billows of chiffon and laces, long droop- 
ing ostrich tips, diamonds and pearls — the Mexican 
woman does not care for colored jewels — sweeping 
opera cloaks and ultra Paris gowns. The men were 
all in their perennial dead black. There are only 
two types of the Mexican man, one tall, narrow- 
chested, pale, and aristocratic, the other short and 
stout — very stout. 

Mario, the favorite native tenor, with a note that 
brings up memories of Campanini, lounged in a little 
alcove, and talked volubly with an aged statesman 
and his wife. 

Frorn the orchestra in the balcony overhead, with 
its setting of ferns and palms, came strains of a pen- 
sive waltz from Chaminade that seemed strangely 
ill-suited to the time and occasion. The air was 
heavy with fumes of the wines, the scent of perfume, 
and fading flowers, and the smoke from cigarettes, 
while the low-hung ceiling seemed to droop and 
press down upon the occupants. 

After a time Fuentes, even more gorgeously 
dressed than usual, strolled in with several compan- 
ions, and, laughing boisterously, took a seat near us. 
Two of the men ordered only wine and small cakes, 
but the brawny bull fighter first ate a large steak with 
bread and salad, then ended up with a generous glass 

71 



aBli5a anD OBtftelDteOa 



of absinthe. He soon discovered our company and 
began ogling the ladies in the most objectionably 
obtrusive way. Frank glowered at him with such 
ferocity, however, that he evidently considered dis- 
cretion the better part of valor, and immediately de- 
sisted. 

September 5th. 

Tetrazzini has come to town and is now faring forth 
at the Arbun. You would not think that bull fights 
and bull fighters would bring up memories of Tetraz- 
zini, but that is where the story comes in. Tetrazzini 
is the "new Patti" they say, and I think in time she 
will come to deserve the appellation. Very Italian, 
very vivacious, amorous and fascinating she is in 
her opera costumes, with a manner at once sedate 
and alluring, serious, yet gay. There is something 
stilted about her, too, as there is with nearly all 
women of Italian birth or antecedents. Still, there 
is with it all a truth to the emotion she portrays 
that is very pleasing. With a note as clear and sweet 
as the native zeuzontl she maintains a range and a 
compass wonderfully true and vibrant in this high 
and sensitive atmosphere. It is said that the piquant 
little prima donna attended a bull fight not long ago 
in which the unconquered Fuentes came off more 
than conqueror, and crowned himself anew with 
dazzling glory. Tetrazzini saw the valiant hero in 
all his splendor of purple velvet, jeweled daggers 
and gold lace, and fell a victim to his unrivaled 
charms. Shortly after this, however, the fortune of 
Fuentes turned a little in its spinning, and fate played 
him a scurvy trick in allowing him to be somewhat 
seriously wounded by a too far goaded and unusually 

72 



in Qpeiico 



dexterous bull. The singer expressed a desire to 
visit the fallen hero that she might offer her sympa- 
thies. The doctor, who admitted the lady, expected 
to see his patient overcome, abashed, and grateful 
for the tender interest he had awakened in the breast 
of the great singer; but instead of any such emotion 
being evinced, he turned and whispered to the doctor, 
''What do you think her jewels are worth?" 

This is the i6th of September, the Mexican fourth 
of July. All morning the soldiers, cavalry and in- 
fantry, ten thousand strong, were marching through 
the streets from the National Palace to Chapultepec, 
and drilling out on El Campo de las Guerras. It is 
an inspiring sight to see ten thousand soldiers march- 
ing to the beat of the drum and the strains of martial 
music, and to halt at the bugle call. It makes one 
feel real patriotic, and that one ought to have an old 
grudge against somebody, for something, you don't 
know exactly what. 

Peons filled with patriotism and pulque, rush 
through the streets crying "Mueren los Gachupinos" 
(Death to the Spaniards), and it is said that few of 
that nationality are brave enough to show themselves 
on this day. The most interesting of the day's spec- 
tacles are the picturesque rurales — the republic's mar- 
shals, who bring up the rear of the procession. Many 
of these men were once noted bandits and highway- 
men. When they were captured President Diaz 
looked them over, and with the astuteness peculiar to 
him, selected those who could be turned into trust- 
worthy citizens, and sent them out to guard the fron- 
tier, and the others to be shot. They make a pictur- 
esque company indeed. All are mounted on red and 
white spotted horses, and wear the charro costume, 

73 



€Ii?a anti OEtfielDtesa 



which consists of very light yellow leather trousers, 
with fringe up the side, short fringe-trimmed coats, 
flying red four-in-hand tie, and dull gray embroid- 
ered sombrero. They are sturdy men, and brave, and 
have done much toward reducing the lawlessness once 
rife in the land. 

At twelve o'clock to-night President Diaz will come 
into one of the balconies of the palace and ring the 
bell once rung by Hidalgo ; on the stroke of this bell 
the fifty thousand persons packed in La Plaza de las 
Armas — the Zocalo — and the converging streets, will, 
on the instant, burst into a prolonged cry known as 
the "Grito." 

One of the chief charms of Mexico to visitors from 
the North is its mediaeval flavor, in the midst of the 
manifestations of modern progress. On all these 
feast days, both political and religious, one sees many 
unusual costumes, and customs. There seems to be a 
direct bridge between the twentieth century and the 
dim, shadowy, pre-reformation Old World. Always 
there is the throwing of confetti, the flying of the 
highly colored paper ribbons, and many provincial 
costumes and diversions. 

To-day all of the buildings on San Francisca are 
draped in festoons of natural flowers, and the flags 
of many lands. On the American Bank the green, 
white and red float out with the Stars and Stripes. 
Here is the German and Mexican, there the French 
or English. Truly a cosmopolitan sight! 

October 6th. 

Went down this morning to get a spool of thread 
from old Juana, who keeps a little store just under 

74 



in Q&erico 



us. In her little place, about six by eight feet, she 
has an assortment of thread, buttons, needles, pins, 
hooks and eyes, the three latter being Brobdignagian 
as to proportions. Besides these she carries in stock, 
beads, a little cheap jewelry, candles for lighting 
churches and altars, rosaries, lamp wicks, straw mats, 
and the ever-present lottery ticket. In the open wm- 
dow there is always displayed a row of huge bun sand- 
wiches, with a slice of some kind of pressed meat and 
a few rings of chile and onion, and last but not least, 
a goodly pile of chirimuscas. I am very fond of nearly 
all of the Mexican dukes— a name applied indiscrimi- 
nately to nearly all kinds of sweets — but the chiri- 
musca, a long twisted stick of yellow molasses candy, 
is one of my prime favorites. Next in my affections 
are the candied fruits and vegetables. You would not 
believe it, but they make the most delicious dulces 
out of squashes and pumpkins, and the candied nuts 
are well known to many Americans. 

Juana, unlike most women of her race, is not at all 
amiable and pleasing. She lacks that caressing, 
wheedling tone and manner that most of them have, 
and usually carries a half scowl on her face. As 
I walk up each day and lay my centavo down she 
says ''Chirimusca, sefiorita?" then turns her Amazon- 
ian back squarely to me. Now, this is not true of 
Benito. He has the most optimistic, and contented 
nature of any one of my acquaintances. Benito is 
four, and brown and soft like polished sandalwood, 
with' his coarse black hair making a half circle around 
his face, his big, black eyes shining merrily up at you. 
He runs up and down the street in front of his Grand- 
mother Juana's store, or plays in our patio with the 

75 



(Eli^a anti CtftelSreOa 



portera's little daughter Lupe. Winter or summer, 
night or day, his costume is the same. Shoeless, hat- 
less, he goes with long, straight cotton trousers that 
reach to his ankles, a dark checked cotton shirt, and sus- 
penders like a man. These complete his outfit. Though 
Benito is so merry and philosophic, he is also very 
exclusive; having only three close friends, those be- 
ing the portera Anastasia, Lupe and myself. 

The Man in Gray, Frank and even warm-hearted, 
tender Etheldreda have failed to gain his full confi- 
dence. They have offered toys, dulces and the usual 
open-sesame, the centavo, all to no effect, and I think 
I should never have gained this end had I not given 
him the little pie made of real American cherries — 
cherries from the hillside orchard in old Missouri. 
And who would not be won by such a votary! 

November 6th. 

These Aztecs have the most poetical way of ex- 
pressing themselves. The other day I asked Fran- 
cisca how long she had been with me, and she replied, 
"Hast lost thy memory, sefiorita? Have been with 
thee four moons already." 

Again I asked: ''Have you been happy with me, 
Francisca ?" And she replied : 

"Yes, sefiorita, all of the days I have been very 
contented and happy. You are very amiable and 
sympathetic with me." 

Once we were picnicking at Xochimilco and I asked : 

"Francisca, where are Las Tres Marias? I cannot 
find them to-day." 

"Oh, Jesus, sefiorita," she answered, laughing. 
"Dost imagine the mountain ran away whilst thou 
dreamt? They are back there under the clouds." 

76 



m ^tmo 



November 15th. 

Stood in broiling sun two hours to-day to see Presi- 
dent Diaz go by — Observation — Wonder how long he 
would stand to see me go by. 

November 28th. 

Frank has been gone about three weeks and we 
miss the boy dreadfully. At least I do, though Eth- 
eldreda assures me she has scarcely thought of him. 
She told me some time ago, however, in one of her 
confidential moods that when she was lonely or low- 
spirited she always sang The Heart Bowed Down. 
And I have observed that for the last week or more 
she has gone to bed at night, and gotten up in the 
morning humming that heart-breaking air. I would 
not remind her of it for worlds, however. It's only 
the Eternal Feminine. 

Frank is down in Yucatan visiting the ruins which 
are among the most interesting on the continent. We 
heard from him the other day at Merida. ''From 
San Luis Patosi," he wrote, "we came to Tampico on 
the Orange Blossom route. This takes us through 
the famous coffee region, you remember, and some 
say the Mexican paradise, and it certainly is grand all 
right. To the north and south lay the mountains 
overhung in draperies of turquoise blue, and embow- 
ered in everlasting verdure; while to the east the 
Mexican Gulf surges over its coral reefs. This re- 
gion is inhabited by the Huestecos, the remnant of 
a once powerful tribe. These Indians are cleanly, 
honest and industrious. It is the boast that no doors 
are locked among the Huestecos. The approach to 
Campeche is uninteresting enough, the northern coast 
being skirted by an almost continuous line of low 

77 



(Klt^a anD OBtfjelDreDa 



dunes, while the country itself is bleak, arid, and al- 
most streamless. Much wonder has been expressed 
that it could have once been the home of so flourish- 
ing a civilization. Last week we saw the ruins of 
Ake with its huge pyramid, and yesterday and day 
before we were at Naxmal. These ruins stand un- 
rivaled for their magnitude, the richness of its sculp- 
tured fagade, and the almost classic beauty of its 
statuary. 

But the heat! !!!????!!!??? 

After writing thus fully on the subject, will only 
add that the government thermometer is registering 
I GO in the deepest shade. Ruins are well enough in 
their way, but I'll be proper glad to get back and 
look at something fresh and young once more — 
American young ladies, for instance. 

November 30th. 

This morning I was awakened about six o'clock by 
that uncanny rotary-peristaltic motion, that sickening 
tremolo, with which I have become so familiar, and 
the cry of ''temblor! tem-tem-b-1-o-r !" in the streets. 
Francisca, with a rebozo thrown over a pink calico 
dress skirt, and yellow cotton chemise, her shining 
hair more disheveled than I had ever seen it, came 
rushing into my room. 

"Valgame, Dios! senorita." Then she begged that 
I would have haste, and not be like the woman 
crazy in the street of the Fifth of May who had re- 
fused to go down till she had put on her dress 
fashionable, and put up her hair yellow. She im- 
plored the help of Guadalupe, the Mother Mary, and 
several special saints, though I failed to see what as- 

78 



in ^mco 



sistance they could have rendered had they been there, 
as Francisca really hindered more than she helped. 
She put my kimona on upside down, broke both 
draw-strings off my petticoat, then searched under the 
bed in vain for some kind of foot apparel, "Cham 
bon! seiiorita, have a little hurry." 

Etheldreda, in a sea-green kimona, with huge blue 
storks sailing over it, one red Japanese slipper in her 
hand and one on a bare foot came pell mell through 
the door and sank into a chair. Francisca shook her 
to her feet, and with the family in the next vivienda, 
the senor, the senora and the children, all in vari- 
ous stages of undress, we fled. The senora panting 
down the winding stone steps as fast as her short, fat 
legs could carry her, exclaiming, "Por Dios !" at every 
step. Anastasia, the portera, appeared a trifle more 
calm than the rest of us, though it seemed to take an 
eternity to let down the huge iron chain and produce 
the key, which must weigh about two pounds. By this 
time it was all over, so we went trailing up the steps 
again into the balcony. 

The women who were astir knelt on the ground 
saying their beads, while the men, also in praying 
attitude, were uncovered, their sombreros by their 
sides. One peculiar thing about these earthquakes 
is that if they are at all severe, the horses stop per- 
fectly still and refuse to move an inch till it is all 
over. Some people say they like earthquakes. They 
enjoy the peculiar sensation and the sight of the 
lights, the telephone posts moving in such a super- 
natural way; but it's queer taste to me. I will have 
to admit, like the horse and peon, I am filled with 
abject terror. 

79 



(Bli^a anD CtbelDteOa 



December i6th. 

Oppressive dull green clouds have been hanging 
just over the house-tops for days. There has been no 
rain to relieve the monotony, only once or twice a 
fine angry dash came against the v^indov^ panes. 
The dust has blown about in an aimless, irritating 
kind of way, and it has been so cold and dispiriting 
that I have longed for the crackling wood fire in 
the library at home. The sun is all right — when it 
shines — but nothing can come up to a fireplace with 
wood burning in it, for solid comfort. It would soften 
the meanest heart on earth, I think. 

Etheldreda stood in the balcony and made her dole- 
ful plaint. 

'T don't believe that cloud ever will lift. Was 
there ever a time, Pelleas, when the sun shone?" 

''Ah-h ! yes," said Pelleas in the most cheerful 
manner and tone, just as though it were a gay May 
day. 

"I have never known, child, a cloud that did not 
pass away, nor have I known the sun to fail to shine 
when it was gone. Why, it is the sun that gives that 
cloud the yellow look." 

A train load of American tourists came in yester- 
day, and as there were so many of them in the Ala- 
meda this morning the band played "King Cotton," 
*'My Old Kentucky Home," and ''Dixie," and these 
familiar and beloved airs warmed the cockles of our 
hearts a little. 



80 



in a^ejico 



CHAPTER XI 

In Mexico, as in most countries where people live 
out of doors the year around, the plazas and public 
gardens play quite an important part in its social 
life. Here, every town and city has its plaza where 
all degrees and conditions of people congregate, or 
keep appointments, and where bands play the most 
delightful music, at least two days in the week. And 
it is not rag-time, or trashy music that one hears, 
either; but music by the best composers, or from the 
best operas. It is not uncommon to see an Indian, 
unwashed and uncombed, shoeless and shirtless, 
dressed only in short coat, trousers and sombrero, 
going down the street whistling an air from "II 
Trovatore,'' or perhaps "Aida." 

In Mexico City the principal plazas are the Zocalo, 
the Alameda and Chapultepec, besides numerous 
smaller ones. The Zocalo is in the center of the city, 
with the National Palace built by Montezuma on the 
east, the Cathedral on the north, and the Portales to 
the south and west. It is tastefully laid out in flower 
beds, with shade trees scattered about, and a kiosk 
in the center for the orchestra. 

The Alameda is said to be one of the most beauti- 
ful public gardens in the world. Here and there are 
groves of stately beeches, and the dusky eucalyptus; 
the walks are bordered by bananas and palms, and 
there is a large pergola completely overrun with 

8i 



(BlU^ atiD (BtbtltttM 



Martha Washington geranium, and plumbago goes 
dimbing up among the branches of the trees. The 
statuary in the Alameda is particularly chaste and 
beautiful, and the fountains, with their mythological, 
or fanciful figures, dispensing water into the large 
carved basin, add to the picturesqueness of the place. 
This, being the most centrally located, is the most fre- 
quented. Students go there to study and meditate, 
nurses take the children to romp and play, the weary 
and sick go to rest and recuperate, and the young 
girls, from Protestant schools and convents, flock 
there in numbers. Many an encounter that had its 
incipiency in the Alameda ends in marriage, or — a 
tragedy. 

The setting to the picture would be something like 
this. An early morning with the flowers sparkling 
and radiant, from a gentle shower of the night previ- 
ous. The trees alive with song birds, the air filled 
with an elusive fragrance. A gay and idle young 
cavalier out for adventure, and a bewitching young 
girl going through with her female attendant, on her 
return from an early walk or mass. There is a half 
glance from seductive eyes, a suspicious smile, and 
the girl goes demurely on down the banana walk 
with the gay young cavalier following in her wake. 
Possibly she bestows no more notice than the glance 
on this first occasion, but the next time there is a 
flash of a Venetian blind, and a dazzling smile. In 
a day or two there comes a letter, perhaps another, 
and still another before there is a reply. After the 
exchange of one or more letters, the young man 
sends a white silk handkerchief to his enamorita, 
which, if she accepts, signifies virtually that she ac- 
cepts the donor, and then begins that mode of court- 

82 



in ^mto 



ship known among the Americans as ''playing bear," 
and which consists in the young man standing on 
the pavement below, swearing eternal devotion and 
fidelity to a lady love in a balcony two or three floors 
above. 

Just across the street from us, a little weazened, 
bow-legged Don Quixote, about twenty-five, I should 
say, comes every few days and thus makes love to his 
Dulcinea, a big, fat woman nearing forty. This has 
been going on nearly seven years, the neighbors 
tell me, but a heartless father interferes, and only 
yesterday I saw little Quixote go scuffling off in the 
rain, looking like a drenched rat, as papa came across 
the patio into the street. 

I have often seen them clasping their hearts, wring- 
ing their hands, and smiling in apparent desperation 
and vowing all kinds of vows, but really — Spanish is 
ideal for love making. I am sure no other language 
could surpass it for expression in this particular de- 
partment of the fine arts. Let those who are skepti- 
cal listen to the declaration, 'Te quiro, Linda," and 
they will forever be convinced. 

But you must not think that after a Mexican young 
lady is really engaged the sailing is made on any 
fairer seas. The young man must continue his woo- 
ing from the street, the lady remaining in the bal- 
cony. After a time the mother of the girl becomes 
cognizant of the state of affairs, but she, too, was 
once young and in love, spending hours bending low 
over the balcony rail talking to her lover below; so 
she pretends not to see anything at all. But the 
father! When he finds out what is going on, seems 
to feel called upon to go into a towering rage, making 
all manner of threats and warning. He does not 

83 



OBIi^a anO (JBtfjelDtefta 



really mean it, or expect it to have any effect what- 
ever. It is to him just a necessary custom that must 
be kept up when his daughters are concerned, be- 
cause the love-making still goes on from the bal- 
cony, letters still fly between, and there are perhaps 
a few hurried, impassioned words in the plaza, as 
the young lady's attendant waits demurely out of 
hearing. Just before the marriage takes place the 
young man is, perhaps, given the privilege of calling 
on his affianced, but always in the presence of the 
mother, or it may be the entire family. 

While the Mexican girl of the middle and upper 
classes is bound about by unyielding conventionalities 
and customs, that have endured with the centuries, 
the Indian girl is as free as the air she breathes. 
She comes and goes, on street and plaza, from mar- 
ket to church, and on excursions of pleasure, alone 
and unrebuked. She mates as the birds mate, with 
as little preparation, and as little ceremony. 

Perchance, some day in the market a swarthy young 
Aztec happens along. He is attracted, perhaps, by a 
laughing mouth, or the turn of an ankle. To show 
his state of feelings he may tweak her cheek, poke 
her in the ribs, or bestow some other such polite 
attentions, after which he leans against a vegetable 
booth and grins mawkishly at her. If she likes his 
appearance she smiles her pleasure; then he, taking 
her by the hand or pulling her rebozo, leads her away 
to his home, that is, if he has a home, and if not, 
she spends the time on the streets. The condition 
of many of these people is very deplorable, it being 
said that there are twenty thousand of this class in 
Mexico City alone who have no bed but the stones 
on the streets, and no covering but the canopy of 

84 



m ^uito 



heaven. This lazzaroni population is the despair of 
the poHce, and the forlorn hope of the philanthropist. 
The suggestion that is sometimes heard that they 
be forcibly deported to the hot country to work on the 
haciendas is only a facile and supercilious one. These 
people have been a factor of Mexican life since the 
days M^hen Mexico City was Tenochtitlan, and are 
liable to remain so. 

In 1823 H. G. Ward, the British charge d'affairs, 
a shrewd observer of the country and its people, 
wrote: "By far the most disagreeable part of Mexico 
is its lazzaroni population * * * Dress, they have 
none; a blanket full of holes for the men, and a tat- 
tered petticoat for the women, form the utmost extent 
of the attire of each." — and this is true even to this 
day. 

The attire of many of the women of the populacho 
consists of a coarse cotton chemise, a blanket skirt 
drawn tight across the back, the entire fulness in the 
front, and if she has attained to the age of woman- 
hood, a blue rebozo suspended from the neck and 
containing a diminutive piece of humanity. 

The women of the servant class wear rather short 
full skirts, a short basque or loose waist, very sharp- 
pointed shoes, and the hair in two long braids down 
the back. 

The men of this class, the mozos, cargadores and 
street venders, wear loose white coats, tight trousers 
with a spring at the ankle, and the eternal sombrero. 
Sometimes it is said the entire wealth of the family 
is contained in one of these splendid head adorn- 
ments. 

The most picturesque of the costumes worn by the 
men are those of the gendarmes, and one imported 

8s 



OBli^a anO dBtftelHrena 



hundreds of years ago from some province in Spain, 
known as the charo costumes. The gendarmes wear 
dark blue, close-fitting braided coats, trousers of the 
same color bagging over tall laced boots, white gloves 
and military caps. 

The charo dress is usually of leather or heavy cloth 
consisting of tight trousers with coins or fringe^ up 
the sides and coats similarly trimmed, coming just 
to the waist. 

While the condition of the populace is confessedly 
forlorn and discouraging, still one who takes the 
trouble to note the interest they manifest for the fine 
arts cannot regard their state as altogether hopeless. 

You will notice how they gather about the art shop 
windows, eagerly devouring every detail of an en- 
graving, studying the photographs and paintings. 
They note every particular of the mechanical and 
scientific devices displayed in the windows — ^the writ- 
ing machines, optical instruments, phonographs, sew- 
ing machines and all such appliances. 

That the uplift of these people is a sore and 
puzzling problem to the sociologist and philanthropist 
cannot be gainsaid; still that there is much to en- 
courage must also be admitted. 

The awakened interest in charities and charitable 
institutions, the enlarged and broadened facilities of 
the public schools and the yearly increase of the at- 
tendance are all favorable indications. 

The desire for improvement and advancement is 
noticeable particularly among the women who seem to 
have been touched by the spirit of the Great West, 
who seem to long for something different — something 
more elevating than they have known. 

One cannot help but admire these women of the 



in ^mto 



servant class who with cleanly bodies and garments, 
steadfast and earnest of purpose, faithfully go about 
performing the duties assigned them. 

But yet the Indian girl, with all her lack of educa- 
tion and uplifting influences, is on the whole, if she 
has plenty to eat and wear, as happy as the girl or 
woman of the higher classes. 

To an American the life of a Mexican woman 
seems severely ordered. She is brought up in the 
seclusion of home and the convent or small private 
school under the strictest guardianship. There are 
few opportunities for outside influences to creep in 
and interfere with the carefully trained habits molded 
by nun and priest. The customs brought from old 
Spain still continue, and the woman is moulded to 
fit them. 

She is seldom permitted to leave home either as 
daughter or wife unless attended by some female 
member of the family or servant. On occasions she 
makes a few conventional calls, but social functions 
are rare, and she attends those only under the strictest 
chaperonage. 

They have no clubs, no societies, no "pink teas" ; 
but one thing they do have, that constant delight of 
the human heart, and that is — gossip ; for the Mexican 
woman is a born gossip when the opportunity offers. 

Her time by force of conditions is occupied by the 
learning of accomphshments and the practice of 
religious observances, rather than with the serious 
branches of education or domestic requirements. 

She considers manual labor altogether beneath her, 
and as servants are so plentiful and cheap it is not 
necessary that she labor with her hands. 

But w4th all her retirement and seclusion from the 

87 



€li5a anD (EtfielDtelia 



world I am impressed how early she seems to know 
and understand the intense, the mysterious things of 
life. 

To an American girl in her teens, life and the 
stress of it are as nebulous as the Milky Way. With 
her untrammeled youth, her friends, her outdoor 
sports, education and travel, her mind remains fresher 
and more wholesome. She learns, perhaps, the tragic 
impassioned emotions that come to some. 

The American girl has even gran pasiones, but it is 
life that teaches these things to her — but the Mexican 
girl, even in early youth, dreams of throwing herself 
into the arms of her lover, waiting below, of a flight, 
leaving all behind. 

The American girl expects to get married some day, 
it is true, but she dreams of a big wedding, of be- 
witching bridesmaids, flowers and music, a husband 
that will be all devotion and tenderness, with money 
for all things needful. She will love the man, of 
course, as she never under any circumstances con- 
siders marrying without love — in her dreams — ^but 
there are no tragedies and no melodramas in her vision 
of the future. 

It is to the male population of Mexico that the 
gods are the most kind. He and the children receive 
the lion's share of all favors bestowed ; woman occupy- 
ing a rather inconsequential and unimportant sphere. 
It is he who basks in the liberties and privileges that 
she is denied. 

By ones, twos, threes and dozens he loiters in the 
plazas, eats and drinks in the restaurants while his 
womankind looks on from carefully barred windows, 
or drives under strict surveillance up and down the 
paseo, or walks sedately along the streets. 



in 9@eiico 



Not all the men of Mexico are frivolous, by any 
means; there are many earnest, serious business and 
professional men among them, and not a few pro- 
found scholars; but a great many, especially those of 
Spanish birth, are idle, gay and volatile, always on 
the lookout for intrigue and adventure. 

Whether, however, he is serious, profound or friv- 
olous, he is, to a man, a born Sir Launcelot. 

The marriage vow to him is a gossamer web, lightly 
brushed aside by the first glance from alluring eyes 
or the first bewitching face. 

**Ah," said the little seamstress, one day, our Anita 
with lambent eyes and a voice with a coo in it, "you 
Americans are so cold, cold; you do not know what 
it is to love — to love really. You know there is a 
story among us that many years ago, when the world 
was young, Popocatapetl madly loved the beautiful 
white lady. For ages and ages he tried with prayers, 
passionate pleadings, and threatenings, to win her, 
but with haughty disdain and contempt she repulsed 
him, and drew her white robe of chastity more closely 
about her." 

"And what about poor Popo?" I asked as Anita 
paused to take some pins from her mouth. "Well, 
senorita, he blazed in his fury and disappointment, 
his fires bursting forth in rage and destruction, but 
she was in no way overcome, and looked up at him 
in coldness and unconcern. But," went on Anita, as 
she adjusted the flounce on my reception gown, "I do 
not think she repulsed him on account of her great 
chastity, sefiorita — no — that was not the reason, it 
was because she did not really love him. 

"One evening I went to the theater with Manuel, 
and the French woman in the play rushed onto the 

89 



OBIi^a anD ©tftelOreDa 



stage and passionately embraced her lover. A little 
later an American woman came out and with folded 
arms calmly said, 'I love — ^you.' She was the stately 
white lady." 

''But Anita," I said, ''hasn't your lover a wife?" 
I have heard that he has." "Yes," calmly replied the 
little seamstress, turning her soft eyes up to me. 
"But," she continued passionately, "he does not love 
her; he loves me — only me." "Yes, Anita," I asked, 
"but is that right?" "Who can say?" she carefully 
replied. "Sefiorita," she went on, with a coo in her 
voice, "he loves me with his whole heart ; he has told 
me so millions of times, and I love him the same. 
He never loved his wife when he married her. She 
is not amiable; she is not lovely; and, sefiorita, love 
excuses everything," 

That, I find, is the creed of the Latins. "Perhaps, 
Anita, in your land and among your people; but in 
my country nothing condones the breaking of the mar- 
riage vow. Love has nothing to do with it at all." 
"What a cold and heartless creed yours is," com- 
mented Anita with compassion. 

*'But have you Americans no sins? Have you not 
divorces, many of them, and many marriages?" 

As I walked away from Anita, I went in thoughtful 
mood. I pondered on the many hasty marriages, the 
hasty divorces and the more hasty after marriages. 

Which, I thought, is the false standard? Which 
is the greatest national sin? Little Anita keeping 
faith in her faithfulness, honor in her dishonor, or 
the rapid and shameless passage from one husband to 
another. 

"How marry you Americans?" inquired fifteen- 
year-old Jorge, one day. Jorge's father is a member 

90 



in a^e^icp 



of President Diaz's cabinet, and as Jorge aspires to 
be a statesman some day,, he is anxious to learn the 
language and customs of the Americans. 

"Just about as they do in your country," I replied. 
"A minister performs the ceremony just as the priest 
does, and there is music and flowers and beautiful 
clothes. "Yes, I know that is the way the Christians 
marry, but how marry the Protestantes ?" "Just the 
same," I replied. "They do not remain always mar- 
ried, do they? They have deevorcees every two years, 
is it not?" "Not all of them," I answered, and the 
words of Burns of blessed memory came to my mind. 

"Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see our- 
sels as ithers see us." 

I had seen the vision it is not every one's privilege 
to see — the vision of our land as others see it, and 
the view was not pleasing. 



91 



OBlfia ana (Etfieiateaa 



CHAPTER XII 

The development of Mexico during the past three 
or four decades has been one of the miracles of the 
ages. Like a great chrysalis enwrapped in supersti- 
tion and apathy she slept while the eternal years rolled 
by — slept, and knew no waking. 

The Nazarene sailed the sea of Galilee, wrought 
miracles, and carried his cross to Calvary. Armies 
thundered down the earth, empires rose and fell, and 
Mexico still brooded in her lethargy. 

But, in these latter days, there has come a change: 
the chrysalis is beginning to stir. Already she has 
burst her shell, and is spreading out her wings over 
the coral-reefed southern seas, and over the cloud- 
topped mountains. In those wings glitter the gems 
of the earth : rubies, topazes, sapphires and pearls, and 
the veins are of silver and gold. A new hope and con- 
fidence has come to this rising power, and already 
her pulse throbs with the pulse of the world. She 
has builded railroads, tunnels and bridges, has watered 
the desert and turned the mountain side to account, 
commerce is increasing and the nations respect her, as 
she always plays fair. 

Public schools are springing up from the ruins of 
convents and the monasteries, and the Indian is being 
taught to read. The picturesque bandits, the Robin 
Hoods of the tropics, have been driven from their 
mountain fastnesses and shot, or turned into useful 

92 



in S^tmo 



rurales. The flaming light from the great flying 
engine, shining like a frenzied Cerberus, pierces the 
purple mists of the tropical nights. There is a dis- 
aster in New York, a calamity in Paris, and instantly 
the message flashes down the Sierras. From factories 
clinging to mountain sides, and a-down the valley of 
the Lerma, dense clouds of sooty smoke hover low; 
while tongues of steam hiss into the air, and an elec- 
tric light shines on the statue of Cuachtemoc ! 

This miraculous change, this marvel of improve- 
ment, has been wrought in no small degree by the 
courage, foresightedness and wisdom of one man — the 
president — Porfirio Diaz, and there is no need of the 
prophetic power of Cassandra to foresee what other 
changes the future will bring. There are few rulers 
on the globe to-day, more absolute than President 
Diaz, of the Republic of Mexico. Scarcely is the 
Czar of Russia more absolute, on his gilded throne, 
than Diaz in his simple chair of state. The principal 
difference in the government of the two being, how- 
ever, constituted mainly in the difference between the 
men. The czar rules with the frightened vehemence 
of a weakhng, Diaz with the firm hand, the calm as- 
surance, and sympathetic insight of a diplomat and a 
loving father. Astute, sagacious, alert, a scholar, 
a diplomat, and a statesman, he holds the grasp of 
things with the firmness that denotes the man of 
power, a nature born to rule. 

It has been said, somewhat in jest, that the govern- 
ment of Mexico is a Triumvirate, consisting of the 
cabinet, Mrs. Diaz, the wife of the president, and the 
president. This, in part, may be true, but, on the 
whole he rules per se. 

President Diaz's policies are remedial, progressive, 
93 



OBli^a ano ©tfielliteoa 



looking toward the uplift of the nation, and the na- 
tions' people. They are also mandatory rather than 
advisory, still are they nearly always wise and just, 
and the astute of the country realize this. He has 
tact, zeal, perspicuity of words — a prophet born to 
the hour — and that final consecration of genius, the 
power to understand men and conditions with almost 
infallible discernment. 

Mexico is a country of the most excessive contra- 
dictions, still it cannot be said to be volatile or un- 
stable. Nature, with the most audacious trills and 
interludes, runs the whole arpeggio from the gravest 
to the gay. Extremes meet in the most expectant 
and natural way. From the highest pinnacle of wealth 
and elegance the scale descends to the lowest depth 
of degradation and vice. 

Fruits of all zones, winds of all climes find a home 
there. From the frozen crests, the lofty mountains 
look with disapproval down on the gorgeous plumage 
of the birds, the flagrant hues of the flowers, and on 
the voluptuous sons and daughters of the land, where 
the Sun-god weds with the Princess Poppy. Up on 
the highlands, the air blows as fresh as from the 
plains of Araby, distilled with the scent of pine and 
the odor of the rose, while deep in the swamps the 
crocodile glides through the slime, and the alligator 
basks in the sun. Venomous reptiles hiss and writhe, 
and a miasma comes up from the green scum as 
deadly as from La Campagna di Roma. 

Mexico is a land of constant delight to the an- 
tiquarian, no matter what the period or time. Here 
he may find eighteenth century china, seventeenth 
century fans, or laces, renaissance paintings, Aztecs' 
relics, or the pre-historic emblems of the inhabitants 

94 



in ^tnco 



of this fair land, who ruled thousands of years before 
the Christian era. 

Mexico is an extension, in many parts, a virgin 
field. The archaeologist and the ethnologist, both find 
an inexhaustible field among her buried antiquities. 
Ancient cities are unearthed with their time-worn 
stone columns, suggesting the architecture of Egypt 
and India. Grim idols are hidden away in temples 
whose superb proportions vie with those of ancient 
Greece. 

In the curio stores, national pawn shops, and in the 
Thieves' Market at the capitol, can be found many 
rare and beautiful works of art. Exquisitely carved 
ivory jew^el and patch boxes, crucifixes and rosaries, 
wonderful hand-wrought ornaments in silver, and 
scented woods, and bits of the daintiest china. One 
can sometimes run across sets of majolica vases, of 
Sevres, Wedgwood and silver, vases of every kind 
and description. Several enterprising Americans have 
beautiful collections of Spode that they have gleaned 
from the poorest Mexican jacals throughout the coun- 
try. And the exquisite old jewels, rare and costly! 
I wish you might see them, corals, topazes, diamonds, 
and rubies, in the quaintest and heaviest settings. 

There are mantillas of creamy Spanish lace that 
look like woven silver, black lace mantillas, maltese 
laces, drawn-work in guipure, and Greek designs, 
miniature bead work, rare paintings of saints and 
madonnas, and still I might continue the list. 

But, to me, the most interesting of all these things 
is the native pottery, some of which is grotesque and 
repulsive in design, while some is beautiful and nat- 
ural. Quantities of this pottery that have been taken 
from the tombs of chiefs and other notables, and the 

95 



(lBU?a anO OBt&eltitetia 



statuary and rare jade ornaments that came from the 
ruins of Mitla and Palenque indicate, according to 
some archaeologists, a Mexican civilization older than 
that of Persia and Egypt. 

Much of the pottery, both ancient and modern, is 
archaic in design, embracing some of the most grace- 
ful and beautiful of these pre-historic potteries. The 
little terra-cottas, the "earthwork" from Guanajuato 
are beautiful and interesting in the extreme. 

They depict Mexican life as it is to-day, true and 
artistic. The knavish street vender, the man with his 
pigskin of pulque, the young girl and her dove, a 
child crying over a broken toy, are wrought with a 
precision as true as life itself. 

From Guadalupe comes the black-glazed ware, heavy 
pitchers, cups, and other receptacles representing vege- 
tables, squat animals and birds. The more attractive 
green-glazed ware comes from Guadalazajara, and 
the articles of use from Toluca. The most beautiful 
of these ceramic arts are the terra-cottas, with the 
mosaic settings made at the little Indian village of 
San Antonio, just across the gorge from Cuernavaca. 
The rose jars, teapots, pitchers and other things are 
the rarest and most truly artistic. It is a picturesque 
and fascinating scene of a great feast day to watch 
the little booths spring up around the plazas, wherein 
are shown the different kinds of pottery, irnages of 
saints, and amulets for keeping away evil spirits. 



96 



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CHAPTER XIII 

I am beginning to entertain grave suspicions that I 
have become too good-natured and self-sacrificing. 
Now, this is a fault I particularly do not want to 
cultivate, as it is prone to degenerate into a vice 
when it becomes excessive. Not only on my own 
account do I want to curb this tendency, as it causes 
me so much discomfort and inconvenience, but it 
stimulates selfishness on the part of others. As I have 
grown older, and accumulated more experience in 
consequence, I have come to say, "Lord, save me from 
the person who is a maniac on the subject of unsel- 
fishness." Give me rather the individual who habitu- 
ally helps himself to the biggest and tenderest stalks 
of asparagus, the choicest berries, and the best seat 
at the play. He is far more comfortable to live 
with. The other type gives all the choicest viands to 
the other person, relinquishes his seat in the car, car- 
riage, or at the play, when nobody wants him to do so, 
and there is no need for it. For thereafter he assumes 
a martyr-like attitude, and an air of self-glorification 
that is particularly discredited by the renowned 
theologian of Tarsus. And by this constant reminder 
of all he has done for you makes you earnestly 
wish he had occupied the entire box at the play, or 
eaten the whole dish of asparagus. The Man in Gray, 
after a quiet, constrained good-by, went away with 
that hurt look in his eyes, because I would not go out 

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(gti^a anP (gtftelDtena 



on the Viga for a row, or a trolley ride across 
country. Frank was encouraged in his natural mascu- 
line tendency to disregard the happiness of others, 
while I was miserable and discontented. And thus 
I repeat it is not best for one to be too good-natured 
and self-sacrificing, as it causes more of unhappiness 
and discontent than it does of pleasure and enjoyment. 
A happy medium is best, a part of both selfishness and 
unselfishness, and the world runs well. 

The winged Mercury on his pedestal, at the en- 
trance to the banana walk, looked on with evident dis- 
approval, and Artemis, who stood in the fountain 
sending back sprays of liquid diamond into the basin, 
glanced, with a woman's curiosity, at Etheldreda as 
she turned and waved a little affected adieu to Frank 
as we stood in the balcony, then walked in the other 
direction. 

For two afternoons now I have stayed indoors and 
talked to Frank, or, more properly speaking, should 
say talked at him, while he lounged discontentedly in 
my most uncertain bamboo chair, strode nervously 
up and down the corridor, savagely chewing the end 
of his cigar, or making frequent detours into the 
balcony to glare wrathfuUy a the young Englishman 
loitering in the Alameda with Etheldreda. 

For a long time we sat in silence, while the bells 
of San Fernando clanged insistently, and the doves 
moaned in the turret. Then, in spirit, I flew out over 
the sun-steeped city: over the burning streets, the 
flat house-tops, the shimmering turrets and shadowy 
domes, and with a non-committal, dusky Charon pro- 
pelling our beech canoe, seated by the side of my com- 
panion, whether in silence or in speech it did not mat- 
ter — drifted out on the Viga. 

98 



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Away to the south stood Ajusco and Las Tres 
Marias showing, as on rare occasions, as clear cut as 
so many cameos; now here, and now there were 
patches of vivid green, and the Viga lay like a silver 
band, from the city to Lake Xochimilco. Bending 
low as we disappeared under San Pedro bridge, glid- 
ing through the shade of a giant aguahuite, that had 
for a thousand years and more pierced the black loam 
with its sinuous roots; then on past the floating gar- 
dens, where the flowers, bizarre in their colors, glowed 
and trembled, under the caressing touch of the south 
wind, and the ardent rays of the sun. 

Beyond the haze and the vapor lay Texcoco and her 
clustered lakes. On her limpid bosom were reflected 
the pale sea mist, the billowy clouds that tumbled over 
the chaste White Lady, and the lambent eyes of Aztec 
maidens, looking into the cool depth to discover the 
face of a lover. Legions of ducks and geese glided 
over the smooth surface, or squawked from one vant- 
age ground to another, while the angular crane and 
water hen stalked about in the mire. 

A holy calm pervaded the Texcucan Valley, that lay 
like a bowl surrounded by sun-crowned mountains on 
the crest of the Sierras. 

The silence was broken only by the song of a 
caged bird, and the cry of a macaw in the branches 
of a chirimoya. The wistfulness of a late afternoon 
crept over the scenes; the scent of the flowers came 
sweet and heavy, the odor of the violet, the breath 
of the rose, and an indescribable fragrance, like the 
soul of a dead mignonette. We floated on — the scene 
changed, and there was borne to us the smell of dying 
vegetation, and the lethal poison of crushed night- 
shade. 



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(Klija anO OBtftelDreOa 



A white-haired verger carrying a crucifix and an 
altar cloth passed into a church hidden away in a 
little Indian village. The bells began to clang, the 
trolley car to buzz and swing on its way to the city, 
and 

Things are getting serious with Frank, I am afraid, 
but what can I do ? I have reasoned with Etheldreda, 
coaxed and scolded her, and she has come to me with 
a broken and contrite spirit, promising me she would 
be good, then go on in the same old way: one week 
beaming on Frank with the greatest tenderness, the 
next it was the Englishman, or somebody else. 

I really cannot blame Frank, however, as this bold, 
young wooer must travel far, and travel wide before 
he could find a maiden more winsome, adorable and 
witty than Etheldreda. Dame Nature was in a benefi- 
cent mood the day she bestowed her gifts on Ethel- 
dreda, as, in addition to her personal graces, she pos- 
sesses a ready mind and many a sterling quality. 

That was a wise person in his day and generation, 
who first called nature "Dame," and if the truth be 
told, I doubt not it were a man. Nobody not of femi- 
nine quality could, at one time, shower favors with 
such unseemly prodigality, and at another dole them 
out with such niggardly stinginess. Is it not pathetic 
how few charms some people have and how abundant 
are those of others? Were I the Recording Angel 
I should deal gently with those — especially the women 
— who lack these charms, and know it. 

But Etheldreda, while possessing these good quali- 
ties of heart and mind, was something of a 

No, I cannot say that the girl was a coquette at 
all, but the fact truly is that everybody, especially 

lOO 



in ^ttito 



the men, loved her, and really could not help them- 
selves. 

We were walking along Colon some weeks ago, it 
was Covadonga Day — the Spanish national holiday — 
and we were returning from a kermesse at San Angel. 
Suddenly Etheldreda clutched Frank ecstatically by 
the arm, and with a primrose color flushing her 
cheeks, and a joy coming into her eyes, exclaimed, 
"Look ! isn't that the most beautiful thing in Mexico ?" 

Frank never once looked toward the direction to 
which she pointed, but gazed only at the lovely 
piquant face so near his arm and with a look in his 
eyes I had never seen there before. Etheldreda, 
too, glanced up, and when she beheld the look of the 
man, the color deepened in her face, and, with a man- 
ner a little subdued and frightened, she laughingly 
said, "Oh, stupid! look where I'm pointing," and she 
again motioned toward the stars and stripes that 
waved over the American consulate. 

"Yes, that is a fine old rag," replied Frank with 
some enthusiasm; but I knew from his face that day, 
and his manner after, that the young Englishman 
would better look to his laurels. That determined 
worshipful look on the face of my sturdy young Am- 
erican meant mischief to somebody. 

"Maria was in ecstasies when I came by there this 
morning," I remarked after another outburst from 
Frank. 

"What caused Maria's ecstasies?" inquired my 
visitor, from the balcony, and with the supreme in- 
difference of a young man toward one maiden when 
he is intensely interested in another. 

"Why, Carlos came with her wedding dress, and 

lOI 



©li^a anD ©tftelDtena 



it was lovely. A soft, glistening satin, trimmed in 
guipure and appliqued designs in seed pearls and " 

"Why did Carlos take the dress home? Is he act- 
ing as delivery boy for Madame D ?" asked 

Frank, looking with unseeing eyes at a pale copy 
of Thumann's "Spring." 

"Well, he has a right to take it, I presume, con- 
sidering he bought and paid for it." 

"Bought and paid for it?" repeated the young man 
in evident surprise. "How did he happen to do 
that?" 

"Why, don't you know that the prospective groom 
selects and pays for the whole trousseau in this 
country ?" 

"No — I didn't. Does he, now, honor bright?" said 
Frank incredulously, and arranging the pin in his 
tie. 

"Honor bright; every stitch of it." 

**The dresses, stockings, lingerie — and everything?" 

"Everything," I replied. 

"Well, I'll be Say," he inquired, bending to- 
ward me, a roguish twinkle in his eye, "say, now, 
how do they get the measurements?" 

Now this phase of the subject had never presented 
itself to my feminine mind, and I said so. 

"Never even thought of it?" again repeated young 
Mr. Carpenter with incredulity. "Well, how do you 
suppose they do?" he persisted; then throwing back 
his big blond head, burst into a roar of laughter, 
that naughty American boy. 



102 



in ^nito 



CHAPTER XIV 

It would be difficult to say which is more peculiarly 
national and of more general utility in Mexico, the 
maguey plant, the frijole, or the blue robozo of the 
women. 

From the maguey plant, pulque, the national drink 
of the lower and middle classes is made, and its roots 
produce mescal, Mexican whiskey. The sharp, spiny 
ends of the leaves are used as pins and needles, the 
fibre for thread, and the dried leaves as covering for 
the adobe huts of the Indians. 

As for the frijoles, who can say what would be the 
fate of the Mexican republic if its supply of frijoles 
were cut short for any length of time. An Aztec's 
life without beans would be barren indeed, and the 
aristocrat would fare little better ; but the blue cotton 
rebozo of the Indian women occupies a place of its 
own, at once unique and interesting. With it draped 
about her head, she shields herself from the sun and 
the weather. On great feast days it is worn sedately 
or coquettishly around her shoulders as an ornament. 
With it she encourages her lover, or repels him. At 
night she folds it and puts it under her head for a 
pillow, and last, but not least, it is used as a recep- 
tacle for the baby hanging about the mother's neck 
as she goes about her duties or trotting down the 
street. 

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(Elt^a anD CtfteiateBa 



And the pulque ! Well, it cannot be described, but 
must be tasted and smelled to be understood. I have 
never bought any myself, but when Francisca goes 
out for her daily allowance of beans, tortillas and 
chile — with a dash of meat — she always gets a little 
pulque, as Aztecs consider water eminently unwhole- 
some. Francisca, on several occasions, has tempted 
me to drink a little of this beverage, and, for her 
amusement, I tried to do so, she standing by, con- 
vulsed with laughter, holding the cup to my lips while 
I held my nose. As I have said, you cannot de- 
scribe the taste of pulque, but it is something like a 
combination of stale buttermilk, sour yeast and bad 
beer, and if such a thing be possible, the smell is 
even worse. 

There is one thing that every visitor to Mexico 
must reckon with, and that is the flea. 

*'Oh, a small thing," you say; yes, that's just where 
the trouble comes in. If it were bigger you might 
better combat the ferocity of its attacks; but, un- 
fortunately, its size is not commensurate with its 
bite. 

I am sure that Mr. Johnson had the Mexican flea 
in mind when he wrote: 



The flea 
Is wee. 

But, mercy me! 
It's just as big as it can be. 
If bigness wuz 
As bigness does 
'T would be as big — as, 
Dear me Suz." 
104 



in Q^tmo 



I shall never forget the first time I was bitten by- 
one of these aborigines. It was late at night when, 
suddenly, I was awakened by the sharpest and most 
villainous bite I had ever experienced. That I had 
not been attacked by a centipede or, at least, a taran- 
tula, nothing could have convinced me. From child- 
hood I have possessed, I presume, what you might 
call an abnormal imagination. I could feel the poison- 
ous venom coursing through my blood. My heart 
began to beat rapidly and my arm to swell — I would 
have sworn it. At last, when I could bear it no 
longer, I called Francisca, who came running to me, 
a lighted candle held high above her head, her dense 
black braids crossed over her breast. 

'Jesus Maria! Seiiorita, que tienes !" she ex- 
claimed, as she beheld me sitting bolt upright by the 
bed. 

"Francisca!" I tragically exclaimed, "come here; 
I am sure I am in a very serious condition. Some 
venomous insect has bitten me. Look on the bed!" 

Francisca turned pale, called on Mary and all the 
saints ; then walked boldly up to the bed. She shook 
the sheets and bed clothes, peeped down the pillow 
cases, searched all over the top of the bed and under 
it, but without avail. 

"There is nothing, senorita," she assured me with 
conviction. *T can find nothing." 

''But, something has bitten me, Francisca; I will 
swear to it. Look here, on my arm, and see the 
wound." 

Francisca carefully and tenderly rolled back the 
sleeve of my gown, and, bending over, peered at the 
wounded member; then, with an exclamation of 
mingled relief and disgust, she said: 

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(Bli^a anO OEtftelDreDa 



"Una pulga, senorita," and, looking, I saw the un- 
mistakable red spot these little wretches always leave 
as their trade mark. 

Maria and Carlos were married in the little church 
of Santa Tereza last Thursday, and I miss her gay, 
vivacious chatter and sprightly badinage very much. 

It was rather a pretty wedding, despite the fact 
that one or two filthy beggars hung about the nave, 
and the people were coming and going to and from 
mass and the confessional, all during the ceremony. 

Maria looked beautiful and as stately as her short 
and rather stout figure would permit. Her stiff white 
satin gown had a court train, the tulle veil reached 
to the floor, and on her head was a crown of arti- 
ficial orange blossoms. After the wedding ceremony 
she and Carlos went to a photographer — according 
to an unbroken custom — and had their pictures taken, 
Carlos sitting, bolt upright, in a high-back chair, she 
standing by his side, her hand on his shoulder. A 
Mexican is not really married till he goes through 
this ceremony, and just such a picture as I have de- 
scribed hangs in every home. They have been gone 
a week now and Maria writes me that they have 
journeyed to the southward, and that each day has 
been a golden processional. They are going to house- 
keeping out on the Paseo when they come back, and 
our little company, Etheldreda, Frank, the Man in 
Gray, Pelleas and Ettarre and myself have a standing 
invitation to take dinner with them twice a month. 
Sefiora B is inconsolable, and weeps on my shoul- 
der every time I see her, "She was my only child ; my 
first born and my last; my little wee lamb," she 
moans. "My husband went away years ago to the 
skies, and now my Maria has gone; but I should 

io6 



in ^mco 



not grieve so much because last year Carlos became 
very jealous and did not come to the balcony to 
talk to her for many weeks, and, Oh, Jesus ! I thought 
my little girl would die. But," went on Senora, "she 
took some alms to the great Saint Andrew, and prayed 
to him, and he was very kind and heard her prayer, 
so Carlos came back. Yes, senorita, he is the most 
gracious saint. If your lover is angry, or is untrue, 
or you should need money, and you will go to Saint 
Andrew in the Church of Our Lady of Lourdes he 
will make things all right for you. Only," she added 
naively,^ ''he does not always answer your prayer. 
Sometimes he wants to try your faith." I miss Maria 
not only on account of her gay vivacity, her ready wit 
and humor and frequent informal visits, but also on 
account of her constant efforts to save me from ac- 
cident or death. 

I have said that President Diaz is the ruler of 
Mexico, but there are those whose powers are more 
absolute, who are even greater autocrats than the 
president; namely, the hack drivers of the country. 

Each city is the owner of a system of coaches, the 
different grades being indicated by the color of the 
trimmings. The most luxurious are the blue coaches, 
the commonly used, red, being next in order, and the 
despised yellow coming last, and hiring for sixteen 
cents an hour. The drivers of the coaches, great, 
pulque-soaked Mephistopheles, go hallooing down the 
street, slashing and jerking their horses and trying 
to run down everything that dare come in the way. 
The rich and the poor, the high and the low, alike flee 
before the flying vehicles and their brutish drivers. 

People, generally, and especially the natives, when 
they reach a street crossing look anxiously up and 

107 



OEIi^a anD (KtfielDreaa 



down, then make a dash as if for Hfe. When 1 am 
on the street with Maria she seems to feel it her 
duty, as well as pleasure, to watch over me; so at 
every street corner she clutches me frantically by the 
arm, and, looking quickly up and down, says, tragic- 
ally, "Eliza, do stop ! don't you see there's a coach 
coming! You Americans are so reckless." I came 
in the other day after making a particularly narrow 
escape and said, *'Etheldreda, there is one request I 
want to make of you, and that is, that if I am run 
down and killed by a yellow coach you will not let 
it get into the papers. You will have it a red coach 
at least." "Yes," she replied, ''I will gladly grant 
that promise, if you will promise me if I die in Mexico 
you will not let them put a wreath of tin flowers on 
me." Why Mexicans submit to such indignities I 
cannot understand, unless it is for the same reason 
we Americans submit to having several tens of thou- 
sands of ourselves mutilated and murdered in rail- 
road and street car wrecks every year. In Mexico 
when there is a wreck, the conductor and engineer, 
who are almost universally Americans, flee to the bor- 
der into the States, just as though they were crimi- 
nals, and, in fact, are treated as such. This, on first 
thought, seems very severe, until it is known that 
wrecks of any kind are extremely rare in President 
Diaz's country — American government — take notice 
— and that they do not grow more frequent as with 
us. 

Etheldreda came excitedly into my room yesterday 
afternoon and said, in a stage whisper, "Eliza, come 
out here; I think the man in the next vivienda and 
his visitors are going to have a fight." I took an in- 
different turn or two in the corridor and then came 

io8 



in ^tmo 



back. "Oh, no, Etheldreda, there is no dangfer; 
they are just having an amiable, though animated, 
discussion as to the respective merits of 'Figaro' and 
'Rigoletto.' " I did not blame Etheldreda for think- 
ing as she did. I remember when I was new to the 
country and its people I would see two men rush ex- 
citedly up, and clasping their arms around each other, 
begin gesticulating and talking in the most earnest and 
vehement way. My heart would actually stand still as 
the thought flashed through my mind that there was 
going to be a fight. But, after talking thus for a 
few minutes, they would burst out laughing, embrace 
each other affectionately and tenderly, and, after a 
prolonged handshake, each went his way. It has been 
said that a Mexican cannot talk if you tie his hands 
behind his back, and while I have never seen it dem- 
onstrated, am prepared to accept the statement as 
true. 



109 



(Bli^a a«B €tbtinum 



CHAPTER XV 

Vera Cruz is not a particularly interesting place 
in itself, except that there you may take ship for 
your **ain countrie," but the route down leads you 
through some of the grandest, most majestic scenery 
in this Httle world of ours, and should not be over- 
looked, if it is the initial experience. 

Taking the Queen's Own, you follow the old stone- 
paved highway, that stretches from the port of 
Vera Cruz to Mexico City, the road along which Cor- 
tez brought his army of invasion. 
• Through fields of maguey, and the lush alfalfa, past 
flower and fruit gardens, and little Indian villages, 
quaint and ancient, hidden away in verdant groves, 
and over wayward streams that go tossing on to 
the sea. Under the purple west, Texcoco and her 
teeming lakes glitter like polished silver, mountains 
approach and recede, and Mexico City Hes across the 
valley, forever changing, mystical, strange, under her 
wonderful Chiaroscuro, her fading minarets, and di- 
minishing domes. 

The train plunges madly on, the distance lengthens, 
and she slowly filters out of sight through the mists, 
a vanishing dream, a passing enchantment. 

Every hour of the way, new pictures are unfolded 
before you, pictures subHme and grand, pictures peace- 
ful and fair, pictures of the rarest, most wonderful 
beauty. Passing through tunnels that cut into the very 
heart of the mountains, into rock-ribbed rugged 

IIO 



in ^tmto 



gorges, upward and upward, through ethereal vapors 
to the very home of the clouds. Now, perhaps you 
may see and understand all those mysteries of cloud 
and haze, may read the story of storm and showers, 
the story of the changing mists, the nebulous 
vapors, and of the rain drops that ooze through it 
all. You may perhaps learn the very texture of the 
fleecy clouds, the wonder of the varying forms, and 
touch the rainbow with your hands. 

But you may chase them to their lair, and it is 
always the same; elusive, unattainable, a vaporous 
relucent ignis fatuus, always just a little beyond, or 
above, the rainbow, showing diaphanous and cold. 
The clouds as white and feathery as the foam of 
the sea, or black and dense as a winter's night. Al- 
ways to the north with his sun-crowned head topping 
the sky, his feet bathed in perennial springs looms 
Mount Orizaba. Long ages past the last spark died 
from the smouldering embers, the molten lava lies 
congealed on his sides, and he sits in fervid inactivity 
looking out toward Colima, as he wrathfully belches 
forth lava and flames. 

The scene changes with every revolution of the 
wheel. There are mountains here, and there and 
everywhere. You gaze down into luxurious valleys, 
into impenetrable gorges and deep barrancas, up 
rugged steeps, and unexplored crags and peaks, into 
dizzy heights. And the unspeakable beauty of it all ! 

The ages have come, and the ages have gone, 
leaving each its quota of beauty, wealth, utility. 
Porphyry, granite and marble, rubies, sapphires and 
pearls, strata and sub-strata, lava, fire and heat, the 
wind, rain and dew, froth and foam, the great sea 
over it all. Aeons of verdure, cycles of snow. Truly, 

III 



(Bli^a anD (BtUltium 



only the fool hath said in his heart, "There is no 
God." 

Along in the afternoon the highest point is reached, 
and it seems as though you will soon invade the very 
celestial regions, but all of a sudden you go down, 
down out of the clouds and mists, into a cypress 
swamp. Green slime covers the rotting logs, rep- 
tiles glide about in the mire, and uncanny air plants 
cHng to the trees, immersed in impenetrable gloom. 
Again an upward climb is begun. Back and forth 
up the wooded side of a mountain, around his lofty 
crest, and you drop into the quaint old town of Cor- 
dova, the gateway to La Tierra Caliente, the heart of 
the tropics. 

No need to go to Africa or India to see the 
jungles, as you have them here before your eyes 
in Mexico; the jungles with all their wild, untamed 
vegetation, and their fierce and untamed animals and 
beasts of prey. 

Nor need you go to Egypt to view the pyramids, 
the ruins and temples. Nor to Switzerland to gaze 
upon snow-capped mountains, nor yet to Italy for 
works of art, for Mexico abounds in all that is quaint 
and picturesque. 

The houses of the peons in this region are made 
of cane and thatched with straw, and the people are 
more conspicuous even than those of the upland for 
their undress. They need to work but little, as there 
is food for the plucking, and the dress at all seasons 
of the year is of the smallest consequence. All about 
you is the tropical luxuriance ; groves of mahogany, 
rosewood and copal, plantations of coffee and rubber. 
Reptiles and insects infest the deep woods, and blood- 
thirsty animals spring on their prey. Monkeys chatter 

112 



in ^enco 



among the trees and swing from branch to branch, 
and gay-plumaged birds scold from ambush. 

The train gHdes on through swamps and fertile 
valleys, past huge begonias, orchids, fuchias weighted 
down with purple and crimson bells ; ripened fruit, and 
spices gone to waste, on into Vera Cruz, sitting by 
the sea. 

The sun sank into a sapphire mist as we reached 
our hotel, the last radiant gleams filling every house 
with the coveted "golden windows" and bestudding 
each minaret and turret with scintillating gems. The 
twilight hush stole over the city. A myriad fireflies 
lit up the night with phosphorescent glow, and the 
wind slept on the foam of the sea. 

There are a number of modern manufactures and 
enterprises in Vera Cruz, a world of ancient houses 
discolored by time, and the salt sea winds, and a 
church, earthquake-riven from tiled nave to glazed 
dome. The most beautiful sight about the place, 
however, is the great southern sea lying in front and 
stretching away and away to the low dunes on 
Louisiana's shore and the coral reefs of Florida. 

As you stand out to sea and look back upon the 
town compact against her magical changing back- 
ground, with here and there a lonely palm tree stand- 
ing out in the midst of the rich tropical growth, 
Vera Cruz looks like an old world mosaic, in fading 
tans, dull mauves and discolored pinks and grays. 

To the south, the north and west lays the great 
country of the Montezumas with her varied and won- 
derful scenery, her strange vegetation, and stranger 
animals, her fascinations and contradictions, her 
ruined temples, pyramids and undeciphered hiero- 
glyphics, her adobe ruins and works of art. 

113 



(Eli^a anil CtftelDreBa 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Some weeks ago Maria took Etheldreda and me one 
afternoon to call on her godmother, the Senora Del 
Valle. It was the day of the feast of Our Lady of 
the Snows, in consequence of which we dressed in 
our best dresses, and engaged the most dazzling blue 
coach Francisca could find on the Paseo. 

The Seriora Del Valle lives in a brownstone house 
within about a stone's throw from La Puerta de Vera 
Cruz. The fortress-like doors would easily have 
withstood the siege of Queretero, but instead of the 
knocker being a long, slender brass hand, it was a 
round ring encircled in laurel. The patio was paved 
in slabs of black and white marble, and the marble 
stairway leading up to the living apartments, held a 
brass balustrade. In one corner of the patio stood 
the family close carriage, but most of the lower floor, 
as is so frequently the case even among the rich and 
aristocratic, was used for offices and other places of 
business. 

When we reached the second floor, however, we 
felt we had left the world of barter and exchange 
behind, and had entered a tropical hanging garden. 
Over the trellis, that separated the front from the 
back corridor, roses clambered, maman cochets, white 
souperts, safranas, all sending out an odor of earth 
and blossom. In large pots around the corridor 
were huge palms, giant fuschias, hibiscus, blue and 

114 



in ^mto 



white begonias and ferns. A sphinx-like Mozo, bare- 
foot, but wearing a twenty-five-dollar sombrero, con- 
ducted us up the stairway and along the corridor, till 
we were met by the personal maid of the sefiora, who 
seated us in the parlor. 

The glory of every Mexican house is the parlor, 
or sala. Often it happens when the salary is small 
and the family large, the only pretense at elegance 
is found in the parlor, the other rooms being cheerless, 
with little attempt at comfort or convenience. It is 
sometimes the case that, like the churches, the in- 
terior of Mexican residences is disappointing; the 
drapery, upholstering, and general appearance being 
too heavy and stiff. I have seen one or two excep- 
tionally handsome and attractive parlors that were 
furnished in Louis XVI designs, others not quite so 
handsome in Marie Antoinette, and a few in the awful 
Rococo. A great deal of gilt furniture is used 
throughout the entire republic, and this is almost 
universally in the best taste, and of the most beau- 
tiful and delicate designs. 

The bedrooms, even in the houses of the wealthy, 
are often rather shabby, the worn Brussels carpets 
from the other rooms being used in them. My lady's 
toilet table is always well filled, however, as Mexican 
women are universally fond of cosmetics and per- 
fumes, and all the many accessories to woman's toilet. 
On the washstand is the largest basin you have ever 
seen, generally of porcelain and of the daintiest and 
most exquisite colors and decorations. In these bed- 
rooms, and, occasionally, in out-of-the-way hotels or 
bath houses, you come across pieces of old furniture 
that are so beautiful and rare it makes you heartsick 
with envy. 

115 



OBIi^a attD OBtftelDteaa 



The dining room of a Mexican house is usually 
rather plain and severe, only a little coarse china 
showing on the sideboard, as all the fine china and 
silverware must be kept under lock and key. 

The kitchen is, to my mind, rather picturesque, with 
its big terra-cotta brazero — a long furnace made of 
brick, for cooking — and its array of baskets filled 
with all manner of things from the markets, and the 
walls with their coverings of cups, mugs, pitchers, 
and all kinds of pottery hung upon nails. 

Mexicans have three meals a day, with nothing 
served between except when there are visitors, then 
wine and cake is brought in. 

Breakfast is a very informal affair, consisting of 
rolls, and coffee — and beans, "nationales," as the 
Americans very appropriately call them. 

Dinner is served from one to three, and there are 
usually six or seven courses, commencing always with 
soup and small French rolls. Then there is a meat 
course, veal, fish or chicken, perhaps with salad, fol- 
lowed by rice, fried eggs or some vegetable, another 
meat course, usually one of the native dishes, then a 
dulce of some kind — wine being served during the 
entire meal except with dessert. Afterwards coffee — 
and beans. This is an ordinary meal, but when there 
are great dinings among the wealthy there are often 
more than twenty courses served. 

I wish you might taste some of these native dishes, 
young duck with pineapple sauce, for instance, and 
roast chicken stuffed with just a soupgon of garlic, 
which, by the way, is all of garlic you need, and you 
cannot say you have really lived if you have never 
tasted mole de guajolote, a remarkable rendering of 

Ii6 



in ^nito 



turkey with a tomato sauce, containing all the delec- 
table spices and herbs that grow on the face of the 
globe. Then there are enchiladas, pigeon pie, and 
mutton that marinates for days in claret and strong 
vinegar, with shallots, tarragon, spices, grated onion, 
bay leaves, rice, marjoram, and all the rest of grand- 
mother's garden. 

Supper, like the breakfast, is usually a light meal, 
and among the natives is served anywhere from eight 
to eleven. There is probably some cold meat left from 
dinner, rolls, rice, tea — and beans. 

As I was saying, in every Mexican parlor a large 
gilt mirror hangs upon the wall. Some of these mir- 
rors are colossal as to size, the framing being in the 
most exquisite designs, while others are rather ornate 
in adornment. Under this mirror is placed a sofa 
and four companion chairs, two rockers, and two 
straight, in the form of an open square. The servant 
who admits you seats you in one of these chairs. It 
is a special mark of favor to be asked to sit on the 
sofa, I am told, though the rockers on each side, also, 
denote that you are considered of some social impor- 
tance. When the hostess enters the room you must 
arise; she will request you to be seated, motioning 
either to the chairs or sofa, but you must refuse. Then 
she again waves her hand, and begs you to be seated, 
remaining herself standing all this time; but you mo- 
tion to her to be seated first, your manner indicating 
firm decision. The hostess then lays her hand on your 
arm, and supplicates you to be seated before herself, 
but you, with a demeanor that indicates you would 
suffer torture first, remain standing. Then after an- 
other pleading appeal, and unchangeable resolution on 

117 



OBli^a anO (EtftelDteDa 



both sides, the lady motions with cordial grace toward 
the sofa — or chair — and you with smiling inclination 
drop into a seat. 

Of course, you knew from the first, and the lady 
knew from the first, that you would do just this thing, 
but the foregoing ceremony could not have been omit- 
ted under any circumstances. 

When we were seated after the entrance of Senora 
Del Valle, I saw that she was a little old woman, with 
rather a hard face, though vivacious and witty in con- 
versation. She was dressed in plain black with full 
skirt and loose waist, but she wore a piece of rare old 
lace about her neck, and her fingers were covered with 
rings, most of them diamonds. 

A servant, after a time, brought in wine and little 
sweet cakes, which she served on a gold-lined waiter, 
and cups to match. The senora was very agreeable, 
telling us a number of sketchy stories of the reign of 
Maximillian. one or two being piquant and naughty, 
the others pathetic or tragical. 

I was delighted after a time, however, when our 
hostess told Maria to show us about the parlor, and 
the library beyond; delighted not only on account of 
the privilege of looking at the beautiful things about 
us, but because of Etheldreda. During the entire visit 
we had been sitting bolt upright — despite the inviting 
velvet cushions behind us — listening in the most con- 
ventional attitudes and manners to all the senora had 
to say. We did all this following the initiative of 
Maria, and the strain was becoming a little too much 
for Etheldreda, who had giggled once or twice at the 
most touching point in madame's story, notwithstand- 
ing several black looks from Maria. Maria stands in 
great awe of her godmother, and is always in her 

ii8 



in a^exiCD 



most conventional and unapproachable manners when 
in her presence, which, by the way, is not savine a 
little. ^ 

But the parlor was surely worth while. We sank 
ankle deep into the pile of dark sage green moquette, 
all covered with sprays of pale pink roses that stretched 
away to the wall. 

There were great Corinthian pillars here and there 
about the spacious room — which occupied the whole 
front of the house— designed both to add ornament, 
and hold up the ceiling as well. 

The furniture was all in gilt of the usual pleasing 
design. There must have been eight or ten suits, like 
the one under the mirror, the Empire sofas and chair 
to match, excepting it was of mahogany upholstered in 
red velvet, while these were in brocaded satin of the 
heaviest and most elegant quality. Most of them had 
a background of sea green, with flowers of pale pink 
roses of such deep relief you could almost pluck them, 
others were purple iris or sprigs of rose-du-barry. 

The tables, cabinets, and tabarets were also in gilt 
with borders of the most exquisite miniatures. 

Near the large windows, reaching from floor to ceil- 
ing, were huge Japanese jardinieres containing olean- 
der, lemon and orange trees. Then there was a con- 
sole of the first Napoleon's time, rare vases, loving- 
cups of sohd silver, pitchers, gold lined and heavy, 
ornaments in carved ivory and mother-of-pearl. The 
walls seemed to blend with the furnishings of the room, 
making a perfect perspective, being in Italian Renais- 
sance. Every few paces there hung a tapestry, of mar- 
tial design, perhaps, or of the vintage or mythological, 
each bordered by a heavy gilt frame, the intervening 
space being tinted a deHcate biscuit. 

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©li^a anD ©tftelDteDa 



As we looked about us, the sunlight sifting through 
the lowered Venetian shades, the suggestion of the 
glow outside, the half-light within, and then at the 
commanding figure of the old Spanish woman seated 
on the sofa under the mirror, smiling and pleased at 
our admiration, and exclamations of wonder, Ethel- 
dreda and I felt as though we had been spirited to a 
splendid castle in the outskirts of Madrid. 



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in 9^tmo 



CHAPTER XVII 

There comes a day in Mexico when there is nothing 
wanting to complete the perfect whole. The sky is a 
shimmering, translucent topaz, the air as soft as a 
Circe's touch. There has been a shower over night, 
and the earth is as sweet and fragrant, as young and 
fresh, as on that first morning in the fair garden of 
Eden. 

You hear music, you breathe music. The universe is 
a poem set to music. The air is filled with sounds 
symphonious, as if all the melodies of nature were 
blended together in one grand chorus. 

It was such a day as this when we left Mexico City 
for Guadalaxajara and Lake Chapala; a day as perfect 
as a pearl. 

There were in the company Pelleas and Ettarre, 
Maria and Carlos and Maria's mother, Etheldreda, 
Frank, the Man in Gray, and myself. 

The sun had crimsoned all the east, and sent her 
variegated rays shivering over housetop and church 
spire, when we steamed out of the station, leaving 
behind us the ancient Queen of the lakes, with its 
palaces, cupolas, towers, its wealth of tropical plants, 
and its scented groves. On through the ancient prin- 
cipalities of Tacuba and Tlalnapantla we sped, into the 
open country. 

All about us lay a scene as grandly picturesque as 
it is often given man to look upon. Ajusco gloomy 

121 



(Bl^a anD OBtbelOreOa 



and forbidding, his brow disfigured by dirty patches 
of snow, crowned the incomparable plains to the south. 
Tlalpam, rose-bowered, dainty and smiling, sat at his 
feet, while before, lay fields of vivid green, stretching 
away into interminable distances. 

To the west, the Cordilleras of Las Cruces raised 
their lofty heads amid clouds of sapphire blue; while 
to the north the red-brown hills of Tepeyac stood 
dimly outlined, the chapel at the summit, the white 
stone sails, and indescribable temple of Guadalupe 
showing through the pale morning vapors. Popocate- 
petl and Ixtlachiuhuatl, the White Lady, crowned in 
perpetual snows, stood guard at the east, looking down 
on the doings of the Httle world below. 

The whole of the beautiful valley is sprinkled with 
countless little whitewashed villages, the adobe houses, 
the red tiles of the roofs and the domes of the churches 
showing contentedly among the green of the trees. 
Here and there are ancient highways bordered by cy- 
press trees, and the Viga winding in and out through 
the dazzling green of the fields like a band of shim- 
mering silver. 

The sun rose higher and higher, the dew vanished 
from the foliage and the grass, the wind blew with 
exhilaration, from mountain and lake. Passing 
through fields of maguey and their quickly receding 
rows, with here and there a paluquero in his brilHant 
red zarape, with a huge gourd drawing out the sweet 
water from the plant, on past ranches, fruit and flower 
gardens, villages and towns, we came down from the 
crest of the Sierras, from the ancient plains of Ana- 
huac, descending by gentle gradation into the lovely 
valley of the Lerma. 

We changed cars at Irapuata, where strawberries 

122 



in Q^eiico 



ripen from June to January, and from January to 
June again, and from there we bent our course directly 
toward the Pacific. It is a most beautiful and inter- 
esting journey from the capital to Lake Chapala, as 
the way takes you through many an old and historic 
town. 

Out and away lies Toluca, where laces and pottery 
are made, and at Penjamo, a town ancient and decor- 
ous, that lifts its housetops above the trees, they told 
us that the birthplace of Hidalgo, the Washington of 
Mexico, lay only three miles away. 

We tarried at Queretero long enough to visit the 
church of Santa Rosa, with its flying buttresses, and 
the buildings where the Emperor Maximillian and his 
three generals were imprisoned. It is fortunate for 
the traveller to Guadalaxajara that the journey takes 
him into the fair valley of the Lerma also. Now and 
then may be seen a native lightly propelling his swiftly 
gliding canoe. It may be he is rowing in stolid silence, 
or again a mild Bacchanalian or war song comes float- 
ing out over the limpid waters. 

We stood on the rear end of a vestibule car late in 
the afternoon, to catch a glimpse of the approaching 
city. Past Mesquite and Nopal we flew, the receding 
scenes growing dim in the late afternoon. We looked 
away to the azure mountains, to the foothills, the vivid 
green plains and deep barrancas. Over to the left we 
passed a tumbled-down church, an adobe village, and 
further on a discouraged irrigating ditch came crawl- 
ing in, and then Guadalaxajara, the Florence of Am- 
erica, came into view. The rays of the sun gilded the 
towers and domes of the churches and shimmered on 
the iron barred mullioned windows. 

There are sounds subHme that have been forgotten, 
123 



OBIifa anB (BtUmtm 



visions that have passed from the mind, but to the last 
day of my Hfe I shall never forget my first view, and 
my first impression, of this Pearl of the Orient, as the 
residents call it. 

Guadalaxajara is, I think, the brightest, gayest city 
in the land. The architecture, the people, the city itself 
seems to have an individuality of its own. This city, 
on a plateau five thousand feet above the sea, with its 
oriental buildings, is a quaint mosaic shining like a 
mirage in the white calcium lights. 

A soft white moon came slowly up. The mystic 
hour of vespers had passed, and the music died away 
in solemn cadence. The heavy buds on the orange 
trees, and the pomegranate were clamoring to be set 
free, the rose ran riot on the old stone wall, the chiri- 
moya dropped its foamy dead-sweet fruit, and the 
olives showed dull green among their leaves. 

We strolled out to the plaza, the most joyous, attrac- 
tive place in the city, and with the throng gone out 
before us, we listened to the music that came down 
from a little Moorish pavilion in the center. Later 
on we heard the plaintive strains of a guitar, as it was 
played by some disconsolate lover, and watched a 
swarthy Lothario making love to a little almond-eyed 
senorita in a balcony three floors above. If Guada- 
laxajara had no other inducement to oifer to the lover 
of the beautiful and artistic, no sights or sounds to 
take one thither, it has enough in its wonderful Basi- 
lica to recompense one for the journey. 

The memories of this old church with its imposing 
architecture, its rare and unread carvings and hiero- 
glyphics, its eternal beauty, remains indelibly fixed on 
the memory. 

From the Tuscan-Gothic tower you may look out on 
124 



In Qie^ico 



the panorama spread around, and watch the lights 
come and go over the mountains, that bring out afresh 
the glory of the everlasting vision. 

In the sacristry of the Basilica is found Murillo's 
Assumption, which is only one of the many works of 
the old masters that are hidden away in these 
churches. Besides the Basilica there are numerous 
other churches, picturesque and varied, discolored by 
time and the elements, hoary with age, overrun with 
ivy and moss. 

The sanitarium which was once a Spanish gover- 
nor's mansion, is worth one's while, and the pottery, 
where the inimitable terra-cotta figures are made, is 
just beyond the confines of the town. 
^ The hotels are beautiful and imposing in construc- 
tion, being clean and well kept. It was perhaps a 
fancy of mine, but it seemed to me that the women of 
Guadalaxajara were more beautiful and comely than 
those I had seen in other cities of the Republic. 

We were there during the religious feast in April, 
when the women of all the land dress wholly in black, 
and the Mexican woman looks so well in nothing as in 
this color, and no woman can wear the reboza or the 
lace mantilla as do those of their race. Women of 
other nations sometimes affect the mantilla, but it is 
left to them to wear it with that peculiar grace and 
ease that is all their own, and has taken centuries of 
usage to acquire. And when the Latin is blended with 
the Aztec it seems all the more a befitting head-cover- 
ing. As we walked the streets of this mountain city, 
and gazed up into balconies or through barred win- 
dows, I looked into faces with unfathomable eyes, wist- 
ful lips and shadowy hair, faces that bespoke the blood 
of a lineage that leaves behind the memory of man. 

125 



(Bli'^a anB CtfielDteDa 



A lineage of priest and king, whose mystic Aztec rites, 
weird powers, knowledge of the sacrificial and the 
cloister, seem latent in these fair daughters of Mexico, 
whose direct descendants they are. As I saw them 
in their native halls, loitering in the market and plaza, 
they seemed to awaken dreams of things forgotten, 
like a breath of incense from crumbled temples. 



126 



in Q^eiico 



CHAPTER XVIII 

Dr. Felix Oswald, in writing of Lake Chapala, says : 
"The world in general knows of its greatest men, but 
it is more certain that men in general are unacquainted 
with the fairest regions of their world. I am sure 
there are towns of ten thousand inhabitants in the 
United States, and much larger in Western Europe, 
where it would be impossible to find one man who ever 
in his life had heard even the name of Lake Chapala, 
while every other schoolmaster in America or Europe 
could write a treatise on Lake Lemon or Loch Lo- 
mond. Thousands of American schoolboys have read 
about Lago di Como, and many an illiterate Western 
farmer knows the Boden Sea is drained by the Upper 
Rhine, but not two men in a city full of European 
professors would be able to say if the fairy lake of the 
Rio Lerma is in Mexico or the Philippine Islands." 

On the return from Guadalaxajara, to reach Lake 
Chapala, you leave the train at Atequiza, a typical 
little Indian village about a mile distant from the 
sleepy Lerma, and six from Lake Chapala. She sits 
among her orange groves and wheat fields, quaint and 
contented, catching sight of the far-away world from 
trains that pass through, and the travelers who alight 
to go in the rumbling old stage on to Chapala. 

The adobe houses of Atequiza disgorge most of 
their inmates, who look on with lively interest, as we 
make ready to start, and with the driver shouting and 

127 



OEIija anD (CtftelflteDa 



lashing the horses, we rumble down the main street 
to the open country beyond. We halt, however, when 
the hacienda is reached, to permit us a view of this 
stately old stone building with the orange groves in 
front and yellow wheat fields stretching away to in- 
definable distances. On the portico, with its stone 
floor and massive Corinthian pillars, were seated men 
in charro suits, and embroidered sombreros, reading 
or talking in gesticulatory animation. 

The town of Chapala sits on the northern shore of 
the lake, with an eminence embowered in tropical ver- 
dure in the rear, and the changing waters at her feet. 
There is a good hotel a Httle way back from the shore, 
and near the stone pier are a number of picturesque 
cottages owned by private individuals. 

There is fine bathing all the year round at Lake 
Chapala, and as the breakers are seldom high it is 
comfortably safe, as well as highly invigorating. 

This morning I sat at my window and watched a 
half dozen or more Indian boys, disporting in the 
shifting, glistening waters. They floated and sank, 
dived and plunged, the sunlight playing on their shin- 
ing backs ; supple, alert, graceful, veritable young Hia- 
wathas, in truth a part of the scene about them. 

After a time they bounded like young water dogs 
from the waves, their long black hair dripping, their 
eyes mischievous and laughing, then as quick as 
thought disappeared under cover of a gorgeous bogu- 
bilia vine all in flower and gone to waste. 

It was a scene that would have made glad the heart 
of Sorolla, the life, the movement, the atmosphere. 
How tenderly and sensitively he would have molded 
their youthful forms, how vividly interpreted the ex- 
uberance of their mood. 

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in Q^ttito 



Lake Chapala is a jewel, with a crown setting of 
mountains many miles away. It is about seventy miles 
long and twenty wide, so you can not reasonably ex- 
pect to see the whole of it in one visit. The sportsmen 
tell me that it is abounding in fish, and that the my- 
riads of wild fowl that gather there make it a veritable, 
though undiscovered, hunters' paradise. Wild geese 
and ducks fly over its waters and nest on the shore, 
pelicans and cranes wade majestically about, and plov- 
ers and doves grow fat and toothsome in the grain in 
the valley near by. The climate of Chapala is per- 
petual Indian summer, only the color is always green, 
the flowers always in bloom, and the days go by in a 
leisurely, langourous sort of way. On the shore are 
orange groves and rank aquatic plants, and on the ver- 
dured slopes cattle and horses feed. 

There is considerable distance between the towns 
that skirt the shores, the traffic being carried on 
by low-lying craft, which Frank says are a combina- 
tion of Mississippi dugout and an Arab dhow, with 
all the varied inconvenience of both. As I have never 
boarded one, I cannot certify to this statement, but the 
crew is interesting enough — when viewed from some 
distance. They are all in rather picturesque undress, 
some of them being a cross between Malay pirate and 
a New Orleans stevedore, while the others are gay 
young fellows, always ready for a song, a game of 
chance, or an amorous adventure. Besides these com- 
mercial boats there are a number of gasoline launches, 
while uncounted smaller boats and canoes skim like 
swallov/s over the smooth waters. 

On a fair and cloudless day you may stand on the 
shore as the sun goes dovni, your soul filled with joy 
at the beauty and unsung fascinations of the scene. 

129 



mi^a anil (EtfielDteBa 



The pantheistic conception of the distant blue of the 
mountain tops lit up with fleeting amber and gold, with 
the passionate throb of the restless sea, the changing 
brilliancy of the dyes that stain the valley, the white 
sail-boats afloat on the wind-swept waters, the breath 
of the orange blossoms from the gardens above, the 
song of the zeuzontl in the sweet olive groves, the 
sky aflame with all the vivid colors and warmth of this 
torrid land. 

Chapala is always attractive, always beautiful, but 
it is transcendently so when viewed in the glory of a 
setting sun ; a wealth of color floods the sky, changing 
with kaleidoscopic rapidity, startling blues, impossible 
yellows, pulsating reds, purple and violet, passing frorn 
one to the other in gorgeous bewilderment. But you 
must look and wonder while you may, as the pigments 
soon die out, the spectacle is passed, a tropical sunset 
is over — then the aftermath. The glow quickly fades 
away, the sky changes from a dull gray to a soft filmy 
white, the full silvery moon rides high, casting radiat- 
ing beams into the waters of the placid lake, and the 
world lays soothed and hushed under the unspeakable 
sorcery of a tropical night. The glow-worms among 
the pomegranates, and in their mossy beds, the fireflies 
with their phosphorescent gleams light up the dark re- 
cesses, and a myriad insects drone through the air. 
A light breeze comes over the mountains, gently blow- 
ing the orange and sweet olive trees, and caressing the 
roses on the corridor walls. The strains of a plaintive 
Aztec love song, blended with the music of a deftly 
fingered guitar, float over the waters. An insistent 
night bird makes melody in the willows on the shore, 
while down the street a half drunken priest with cabal- 
istic movement sings in weird incantation. 

130 



in ^mto 



It was a fair May day. There had been a heavy 
deluge over night, and the morning had dawned gray 
and sullen. As the day wore on, however, the sun 
began to shine a little, ungraciously enough at first, it 
is true, then with a shade more warmth and friendli- 
ness, till the clouds had finally given way and rolled 
over the mountains to Michiocan, and the south. Car- 
los and Marie in a little canoe had melted out of sight 
adown the shores of the lake, whose waters like a 
perfect negative reflected the clouds, the amethyst 
mists come in from the sea, and the towns in theii 
setting of green and gold. 

Senora B and Ettarre were seated in the per- 
gola, the senora with an unopened French novel in 
her lap, Ettarre with an uncut magazine, both talking 
volubly and at the same time, while Pelleas in an un- 
painted boat, rowed industriously to leeward. But 
Pelleas was always doing something industriously. 
If he were not doing something for somebody else, 
he was going about discovering some new beauty in 
art, or nature. He had the most wonderful faculty 
for hunting up moss-grown viaducts, long since gone 
to disuse, crumbling walls overrun with verdure, a 
picture tucked away in some niche of a church, 
or a view, filled with enchantment. I verily be- 
lieve Pelleas could walk over a barren mountain and 
find some new beauty every ten steps. But that's 
Pelleas. 

"Don't you want to go with us up to the top of the 
hill over there?" asked Etheldreda as the Man in 
Gray arranged some cushions in the little rustic seat 
under the mango tree near the shore. Frank looked 
uncompromisingly out over the lake. 

131 



(Bli^a ana ©tftelDreDa 



"No, thank you, I believe we don't care to go," I 
answered. 

"Oh, I thought you considered the view from that 
point perfectly ravishing," with a little affected sur- 
prise. 

"I do, but I don't think I can climb that hill even 
to get the view to-day." 

"Well, perhaps you would prefer to go for a row 
on the lake," persisted Etheldreda, pretending she 
really wanted us to go with them and enjoy our- 
selves. 

Frank looked pleadingly at the young girl who 
stood deliciously fresh and cool in a white muslin 
dress. 

"No, thank you, we won't go on the lake either as 
much as we would like," I replied, making room for 
the Man in Gray. 

Etheldreda being a woman, pretended that she 
wanted us to accompany them, but Frank being a 
man, made no pretense whatever, but looked inex- 
pressibly relieved when we declined Etheldreda's in- 
vitation. 

"What do you want to do then ?" asked Etheldreda, 
fanning with her handkerchief, though she was not 
the least particle warm. 

"Only to be let alone," replied the Man in Gray, 
sitting down beside me. Being a man he also made 
no pretense. 

"Isn't it glorious? Isn't it superb?" And Ethel- 
dreda pushed her lingerie hat back from her flushed 
forehead. 

"Just splendid !" assented Frank, looking with great 
contentment at the radiant face beside him, then on 
the scene below. 

132 



in Q^mto 



"I really believe it is Mt. Olive. Can't you smell 
the odor of the olive trees down below?" 

"Yes I can, and I kind of believe this is a view of 
the new Jerusalem/' indicating the wonderful beauty 
of the scene about and below them. ^ 

''Say what do you suppose this old sister is after? 
asked Frank as an old Indian woman with face 
wrinkled and hardened, her dress that had once been 
black faded to a dingy brown, her two long braids 
matted and dirty, came up and quietly took a seat 
near the young couple. 

''Oh, these people do not approve of young people 
being out alone and she has properly come out to 
chaperone us," laughed Etheldreda. ^^ 

"Wonder how long she's warranted to stay, ob- 
served Frank, taking off his panama and fanning him- 
self with it. T-^i ,j 1 

"I can't conjecture, shall we run?" Etheldreda re- 
plied in a stage whisper, as the old woman rolled a 
corn husk cigarette, smiling affectionately at them 
after she had applied a match to it. ^ . . 

"No wait a minute. Let's see what she is going 
to do,''' and Frank laid a caressing, detaining hand 
on Etheldreda's arm. 

But the old woman sat and smoked, watching the 
young pair, and they in turn looked curiously at her, 
till Etheldreda finally said: 

"She's getting terribly on my nerves. Give her 

some centavos and let her go." 

The old Aztec called down the benediction of all 
the saints on the heads of the two as she pocketed 
the coins, and after wishing them a happy continua- 
tion of their wedding trip, went slowly off down the 
hill. 

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(Cli^a an» OEtfielDreDa 



When she had disappeared in a grove of mangoes, 
Frank turned and looked at his companion, who had 
dropped onto a moss grown bank, her face covered 
with blushes, and burst into a hearty ringing laugh 
that woke the woodland echoes. 

"The silly old thing," said Etheldreda disgustedly, 
"I wonder now what made her think we were mar- 
ried." 

"I wonder now," he began mischievously, then 
added more earnestly, "Well I suppose she thought 
she would push matters along a little, because she 
could not help but see how it is with me. Don't you 
know, Httle girl, that life is too good to be lived 
alone?" 

"I don't know about life," replied Etheldreda, as 
the coolest and sweetest little breeze came down and 
fanned her curls, "I was thinking of that lovely boat 
ride all of us had on the lake last night." 

"Now, don't tell fibs," Frank said, moving closer to 
his companion. "All of us are not concerned in this 
at all. It is only you and me." 

The white spray came up and kissed the flowers 
on the shore, the light lay tremulous on the darkened 
waters, and the birds twittered low in the underbush. 

"You know, Etheldreda, how much I care — or rather 
you don't know," he added, a great earnestness in his 
voice. 

"Oh !" cried Etheldreda, springing to her feet, and 
looking a little frightened. "I really think we would 
better be going. Don't you think so?" 

"Hadn't given the subject any thought, but am 
positive there is no need for it. There is one thing, 
though, I am going to do before I go, and that is kiss 
you," laying a compelling hand on her arm. "I have 

134 



in ^nito 



wanted to ever since the first time I saw you in the 
bosque. Listen! Etheldreda, you have been evading 
the question, but you can't do so any more. I love 
you, and you know it." And holding her close he 
kissed her full on the lips. 

Etheldreda gave a little scream, and drawing her- 
self away, went over and leaned against a pine, the 
long bough swaying about her. 

There was silence for a few minutes, then Frank 
saw that she was wiping her eyes, and her slender 
form was shaking. 

**Say," he began with contrition in his voice, "I 
guess I was too sudden about that. You'll forgive 
me, won't you, Etheldreda?" 

Going over to her he drew her hands away and 
lifting up her chin looked into her eyes, instead of 
finding them tear-stained as he had feared there was a 
tender smile in their liquid depth. 

Down on the hillside a macaw screamed in an 
olive tree, the pine needles fell noiselessly about them, 
and the wind soughing through the trees bore the 
fragrance of frankincense and myrrh. 

"There !" exclaimed Frank, after a long bHssful si- 
lence. "Let's go over here and sit down on that 
rock?" 

"Why?" inquired Etheldreda mischievously. "Do 
you feel weak?" 

"Yes, I do feel rather knocked out. That's the first 
time I ever proposed, and it's hard work." 

"Proposed?" Affected surprise. "Why, have you 
proposed to anybody? I'm sure you haven't to me." 

"Keep quiet now, little girl, and just look at that 
view out across the lake." 



135 



(EIi5a atto (Et|)elDteaa 



CHAPTER XIX 

"It was a marvelous time of original and beautiful 
work that covered Mexico with churches, and set up 
in all the remote and almost inaccessible villages, 
towers and domes that match the best work of Italy 
and recall the triumphs of Moorish art," wrote 
Charles Dudley Warner, who was an enthusiastic 
admirer of Mexican art and architecture. 

Every student of art, and admirer of the pictur- 
esque and beautiful, cannot fail to be impressed with 
the variety of design, and grandeur of construction, 
of the cathedrals that are so lavishly scattered over 
Mexico. Most of these date back hundreds of years, 
and were built in a time when the Spanish patricians 
lorded over the humble people of the land, and com- 
pelled them to do their bidding with little or no 
reward. While the cathedrals were designed by 
Spanish architects, it is also very evident that the work 
was done by native Indians. On the fagades, towers 
and portals are designs and figures, unlike the archi- 
tectural decorations in any other country. They are 
often difficult to interpret, and we come to the con- 
clusion that in them are many Indian traditions, of 
a prehistoric art and ornamentation. A great many 
of these carvings are not translatable, and have more 
in common with the carvings on prehistoric temples 
than with that on any Christian edifices, much of 

136 



in ^tnto 



them bearing a striking resemblance to Egyptian and 
Persian art. 

The artists who designed these cathedrals, seemed 
to have had free play, to express their love of beauty 
and originality, in tower, fagade, roof and dome, and 
except in a general form, there is nowhere any simi- 
larity between them. Often, as one goes whizzing 
through some small town, or even in the open coun- 
try, there can be seen above the green tops of ancient 
trees, the marvelous domes and towers that recall the 
tombs of sheiks and califs, abundant in all Moslem 
countries ; then again will appear a slender tower 
that recalls a graceful minaret. The beauty and 
originality is almost entirely in the exterior, however. 
Nearly all of them, with their varied striking outline, 
picturesque whole, imposing situations, the fading 
colors, and decaying decorations, are distinct, but the 
gaudy, modern interiors are strikingly similar, and 
almost universally commonplace. 

One interesting thing about the cathedrals of 
Mexico is their diversified and often surprising loca- 
tions. In the United States the church in the small 
town is found in the center of the village green, and 
each one is almost an exact counterpart of the other, 
but here they are built in all kinds of unusual forms 
and interesting places. At Sante Fe there is a grand, 
weather-beaten old structure that seems to hang pre- 
cipitately over a deep gorge, and many a chapel or 
church, stands at the summit of some mountain. And 
in the country one can see the domes and towers of 
cathedrals arising from the midst of a limitless ex- 
panse of maguey, or standing boldly out in the open 
plain, with every outline clearly defined. 

To me these structures are always objects of de- 

137 



Clija and Ctfteldtetra 



light and inspiration. Hoary with age, and overhung 
with impenetrable mystery, they are dispersed at fre- 
quent intervals, the leadings from one to the other, 
winding like a huge pulsing artery, through the coun- 
try or the heart of the city. 

In fading terra-cottas, mist-grays, and pale yellows, 
with walls discolored and earthquake riven, they stand 
as treasure houses. In their vaults are jewels, vessels 
and ornaments set with precious gems, there are 
paintings by the old world masters, tapestries, carved 
ivory, and rich workings in silver and gold. Like 
monumental Epics they seem to tell, in sad recital, 
of the groans and tears, the weighted backs, of the 
oppressed heroes who wrought their construction. 

The Holy Metropolitan Church of Mexico, uni- 
versally known as the Cathedral, is one of the largest 
and most ambitious churches in the western hemi- 
sphere. It is built on the very foundation of the 
ancient pagan temple of the Aztecs, the corner stone 
of the present building having been laid in 1573, the 
first service being held in 1573, but it was not till 
1626 that it was formally dedicated. One may get 
some idea of the size of this church, when it is known 
that there are fourteen different chapels in the 
building. 

San Cosmus is one of the oldest cathedrals in the 
country, having been established about the year 1538. 
This monastery became a military post in 1855, and 
it was in the tower of this cathedral that Lieutenant 
U. S. Grant placed the howitzer that was used to 
such advantage in the battle of September 13, 1847. 

About three miles west of the city's boundary is 
the hill Totoltepec, on the top of which is the sane- 

138 



in 9^tuto 



tuary of Our Lady of Succor, called the Church of 
Nuestra Senora de los Remedios. 

There is a beautiful and interesting legend about 
this building which is so named from the fact that 
the Virgin in whose honor it was built was supposed 
to have saved the lives of many thousands of Spanish 
soldiers. 

The original cathedral and monastery of San Fran- 
cisco is one of the greatest in all Mexico, and its 
name is closely identified with the great events of 
the country, from Cortez to Jaurez. The grounds 
once covered three squares in what is now the heart 
of the city. Cortez heard masses from its altars, here 
his bones were interred, and here was sung the first 
Te Deum of Mexican independence. 

Hidden away in these buildings, in the most seques- 
tered places, are found noted works of the old mas- 
ters. 

In San Diego, a church founded by Franciscan 
monks are the Prayer in the Garden, and the Last 
Supper. These and many others are in perfect condi- 
tion, showing wonderful richness of color and perfec- 
tion of outline, which neither the corroding of time, 
nor the dust from the sacristan's broom have dimmed 
or erased. 

There are churches more colossal and grand, and 
others more picturesquely situated, but there are none 
more exquisitely beautiful, more chaste and artistic, 
than the Temple of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which 
sits on the hill Tepeyac, just beyond the northern 
confines of the city. 

The Madonna, so the story runs, appeared to the 
humble Indian, Juan Diego, on this hill, and com- 

139 



OBli^a atiD (CtfieltireBa 



manded that a shrine be built in honor of herself. 
The Bishop was skeptical, however, and it was not 
till she had thrice made her command that he was 
finally convinced. A cluster of churches have sprung 
up around the spot, but the original one is the largest 
and most imposing. It is a pale gray structure of 
the Gothic design, with something of the Moorish 
about it. The roof is dull red tile, contrasting artis- 
tically with the gray of the buildings. In the center 
is a huge dome, and on the four corners are richly 
ornamented towers. 

The interior is more complete, and in better taste 
than any I have observed, the floor being laid in 
white and black slabs of Carrara marble. The largest 
chapel is the repository for the mysterious picture of 
the Virgin, and the altar where it is kept has a rail- 
ing around it contaming seventy-six tons of solid 
silver. 

This legend of the Madonna has the sanction of 
Rome, and several feast days in her honor have been 
established by the Papal Bull of Benedict XIV and 
others. 

The principal feast day is December 12th, and In- 
dians come from all over the Republic to worship at 
her shrine on this day. Those who cannot afford to 
ride on trains, come on horses or burros, and many 
of them, though foot-sore and weary, walk hundreds 
of miles over mountains and plain, through gorges 
and tunnels, bringing their pitiful offerings of fruit 
or grain. Thus they go on bended knee to the shrine, 
or to the Holy Well to be healed by its magic waters. 

It is a strange wild scene on Guadalupe day, to 
stand as the sun goes down on the brow of the hill 
Tepeyac. 

140 



in ^eitco 



Above is the chapel, its turret silhouetted against 
the gleaming sky, the stone steps leading from one 
shrine to another, the temple down below. Thou- 
sands of pilgrims crowd each other in the plaza in 
front of the temple, surge up and down the hill slope, 
passing to and fro on the steps. Here and there is 
seen a non-committal stolid old warrior, picturesque 
in leather sandals and bright red blanket, and many a 
young brave in bright zarape. 

Then as night come down the fires are started 
under the little brazeros to prepare the evening meal 
of tortillas and frijoles. As these lights spring up 
here and there, it would seem that the ancient fire 
worshippers were paying homage on every hill, and 
you feel as though you were looking down on some 
pagan rite, rather than a Christian observance. 

There are many kinds of ecclesiastical doctrines, 
many kinds of church polities to be found in the 
Republic, but the Protestant Churches are, as it were, 
just camping on the frontier. They have not entered 
the heart of the country at all, have not captured a 
single citadel. The field is white to the harvest for 
the Iconoclast and the Non-tractarian, and he will 
have done a mighty deed, who teachers the people to 
"burn their books of divination in the market place,'* 
and to forsake their sorcery, the powerful "Malo 
Ojo." 

When Cortez came bringing the sacrament, the cru- 
cifix, and the rosary, he simply engrafted the Romish 
forms onto a Pagan belief. As in ancient days, the 
Aztec brought his offerings, to appease the wrath of 
the War God Mezitli, so now he brings his fruit and 
grain to propitiate his Patroness Guadalupe. 

It has been said that the men of Mexico live Agnos- 
141 



©H^a anO (EtfielDtetia 



tics, but — die Catholics. I cannot certify as to their 
belief and profession at the hour of death, but cer- 
tain it is that in life they are uncompromising agnos- 
tics, scoffing at all beliefs alike. 

When Saint Paul stood on the Hill of Mars talk- 
ing to the Literati and the Dillettante of Athens, he 
found a nation diligently seeking the "Unknown 
God," but the educated man of Mexico apparently 
seeks no God of any kind, but with a shrug and a 
gesture, relegates all such matters to the woman and 
the weak-minded. 



142 



in Q^e^ico 



CHAPTER XX 

Every American dweller in Mexico City goes to 
Cuernavaca at least once a year, though perhaps it 
may be for only a few days or weeks, but the city 
ceases to agree with him, so he thinks, and go he 
must. If his heart beats too slow, it is the altitude 
that causes it, if it beats too fast, it is the altitude. 
Should he begin to grow thin, the same cause is 
assigned, if he grows too stout, the altitude is again 
called into requisition. At any rate he goes, and the 
altitude bears the blame of it all. Everybody asks 
you with an affirmative inflexion "You've been to 
Cuernavaca?" Then you must surely go, never go 
back to the States without seeing Cuernavaca." 

I followed their advice, and went, but sometimes I 
rue the day that took me there, because had I never 
seen the place, had never lingered there, it would 
never have woven its spell about me. And let me tell 
you, never go there if you do not want to have it 
pull upon your heart-strings, till it seems they will 
break with the longing to go back again, and like the 
Magician of the Nile, it VN^ill weave its spell about 
you too. But of course you will go, and in order to 
do so, you will have to get up at a very unchristian 
hour in the morning, and go tearing to the station to 
catch an early train, as there is only one going each 
day. And the way will take you out through the beauti- 

143 



dEIi^a ana OBtfielftrena 



ful, dew-kissed suburban places, along the trail where 
in by-gone days, the caravans passed with their bur- 
dens of priceless value. There were silks from China, 
gold from Japan, ceramic art products found only in 
fair Cathay, cinnamon and spices from India. The 
trail went out across the valley, passing historic Cha- 
pultepec and those ancient palaces lost in virgin 
forest, whose ever-renewed youth seems to mock at 
modern civilization. You slowly climb the Cordil- 
leras of the Barrientos, wind around the foot of 
gloomy Ajusco, and zigzag down to Cuernavaca. 

Those were stirring days and life was strenuous 
in this era of bloodshed and unprincipaled commerce. 

Pirates in low black-hulled crafts with rakish sails, 
lay in wait for the galleons with their precious 
freight, and many is the thrilling story told of the 
doings of those days. 

The burdens of the argosies themselves were not 
always the result of peaceful legitimate barter, and 
not infrequently a burly cacique, or his beautiful 
daughter, were held for ransom. 

Then there are stories of sacked cities, pillaged 
haciendas, of stolen women, and midnight horrors. 

As you wind up the mountain, one of the world's 
grandest views is spread out before you. Down in 
the valley are haciendas, green as the fields of Eden. 
Texcoco, calm and limpid, sleeps under the opaline 
mists, rivers show dark blue, or gHstening as the 
clouds gather or dispel. There are acres of lilies 
blooming for the unlettered Indian in his straw hut, 
luxurious ferns and vines festoon the summits of the 
gorges, and bizarre semi-tropical trees and flowers 
flash into sight and disappear. 

We cross the battlefield of Contreras, and by tardy 
144 



in a^eiico 



revolutions come to that of Monte de la Cruces, where 
Hidalgo gained his great victory. Here we come 
into one of the apple regions of the country, and at 
every station the natives meet the train with baskets 
of fruit for sale. 

As you go higher up, you pass through Indian 
villages of pitiful little straw huts, with the people 
poorer than poverty itself, and the begging becomes 
more insistent. 

At last the summit is reached, and in winding 
slowly down the gray craggy sides of Ajusco, a new 
vista meets the eye. Fields of cane and forests of 
semi-tropical fruits, gray pines and spruces standing 
lonely on the mountain side, streams of lava, like 
petrified waves upon the beach, distant peaks, shift- 
ing clouds and shadows, a rain storm down in the 
valley, mists gathering above, villages, churches — an 
ever-changing panorama. 

Cuernavaca is just the place to dream one's life 
away. It is as if you had plucked your Lotus bough, 
and wandered with your love, into a realm of misty 
beauty, and poetic fancy. 

The world on the other side of the mountain seems 
remote and intangible. Its changing pageant, its repe- 
tition of history, its heartaches and cares seem far 
away and unreal. What is strife and competition, but 
weariness? What are the desires, but a wearing of 
the heart? What is ambition, but a fever? 

There are not so many places of interest to see 
there, it is just Cuernavaca itself that draws so on 
your heart-strings. 

Cortez's palace is one of the show places, and is sit- 
uated in the center of the town, being now used as the 
City Hall. 

145 



(Sli^a ano (Btbtltittm 



Then there is San Antonio, the little Indian ham- 
let across a rocky gorge, where the pottery is made. 

Chapultepec Falls is worth seeing in the rainy sea- 
son, but to me, the most attractive spot in all the 
valley is the Borda garden. This garden was de- 
vised many years ago by a Frenchman whose name 
it bears, but the fact that it was once the home of 
Maximillian's Queen Carlotta, makes it of special in- 
terest to the world. To reach it, you pass down the 
narrowest of narrow cobbled streets, through a 
carved, arched doorway into a roughly paved saguan, 
and thence to the garden beyond. The house, a long 
low structure, occupies a part of the front, and one 
side. It is built of adobe, of a somewhat modified 
Spanish design, with a corridor extending along its 
entire length. 

An American artist had his studio in one of the 
rooms overlooking the street, and through the open 
doorway could be seen a part of the richly carved 
fagade of the cathedral, and the rhythmic outlines of 
a weather-beaten dome. The adobe walls were cov- 
ered with Impressionist sketches ; glimpses of moun- 
tain scenes, the sides of irregular houses, and terra- 
cotta tiled roofs, dusty maguey plants with a red 
blanketed Indian beneath, and many other scenes of 
picturesque Mexico. 

We came upon a party of tourists, the Man in 
Gray and I, as we passed under the rose arbor, to 
the hushed and silent fountain beyond. The man in 
the crowd carried a tabulated list of the garden. 

"A — A," he murmured. "Oh, yes. Arbor — rose ar- 
bor. Here it is," and further on: 

"C — C, coffee plant. Never saw any coifee growing 
did you, mother?" 

146 



p^t>ad^W^*irf' .h b i 'tfr'il ' i i » , <i t dli>iu>»* ■ 



fn ^ttico 



Yes, the truth must be told, he was an American. 

Now the Man in Gray would never have come to 
the Borda garden with a tabulated list ; that is not the 
way to study this exquisite dream-garden. The beauty 
and pathos of its partial decadence, the breathless se- 
clusion of the place, the discolored statuary, the fad- 
ing rose petals, the plaintive note of the song bird, 
touch into life the poetic fancy and still all idle con- 
versation. 

"This rose arbor," said the Man in Gray, as we 
passed into the Mango grove, "is said to have been 
the favorite w^alk of Carlotta, as she played her little 
part of Empress among us. With her ladies in wait- 
ing, she came here in the dusk of the evening, and 
loitered about, or played with the gold fish in the 
glorietta. She really displayed more astuteness in the 
affairs of the empire than her husband, and some- 
times, it is said, he talked with her here, asking her 
advice on matters of state. But his lighter, gayer 
hours, his hours of love and happiness, were spent 
with her whose house lies just beyond the outskirts 
of the town. You have seen it? That Httle lake oyer 
there he had made for Carlotta, and in the evening 
she sat on those stone steps, with her ladies, while 
the entertainers of her household gave theatricals, on 
the waters before her. He wanted to provide ample 
amusement for her while he rode away, and lingered 
by the side of his mistress. 

"You seem to feel her presence still in the garden ; 
you can almost hear her voice, the gentle rustle of 
her gown, and see the glint of the sunlight on her 
stately head." 

And this is true, always her spirit seems to Imger 
about the garden and to haunt the empty house. It 

147 



Cli^a ans (CtftelDreaa 



seems to hush the noise of the waters, to glide like a 
pale wraith among the deep shadows, to mingle in 
the sunshine, and the breath of the flowers. In imag- 
ination you see her as she walks along the paths, or 
stands on the watch tower looking across the valley 
toward the star-crowned, snow-clad peaks, filled al- 
ways with sad foreboding, and the prescience of com- 
ing evil. 

Dressed in the splendor of courtly robes, or in the 
somber gown of a cloistered nun, she sat in the twi- 
light, and with prayer book in hand, read the coming 
tragedy in the stars. Not chasing butterfly fancies, 
but always serious and self-contained, she discussed 
the affairs of government with wily statesmen, or in 
a manner at once gracious, and beautiful, talked with 
her attendants. A day of sapphire skies had drawn 
to a close. The warmth was going from the earth, 
and a cool fresh breeze came blowing down the valley 
from Cautla and the south. Mangoes and pomegran- 
ates lay melting on the ground, the trailing coffee 
plant with its purpling pods drooped by the way, and 
the aroma of spices filled the air. The feathered 
choristers spread their wings, floated, rose and sank, 
or perched on a swaying banana leaf, swelled their 
throats in happy oblivion of the tragic memory of the 
ill-fated queen. 

The zeuzontl high on the chirimoya, trilled a 
sparkling aria in the Oratorio, while the golandrinas 
in less joyous cadence, bore the burden of the song. 
The lilies nodded on their stems, the rose buds 
drowsed in their sepals, while only the wakeful stars 
kept watch, as the night wind stole the perfume, and 
bore it over the wall to the lovers waiting below. 

We sat one evening, the Man in Gray and I, under 
148 



in ^tmto 



the rose vine. It was the hour of the vesper songs. 
The Paternoster rose and swelled, echoing from 
scarred aisle to the tessellated dome. Ave Maria 
floated out on the hush of the evening, and died away 
in melancholy reverberatim. The magnifigat burst 
into jubilant strain, as the joy of the Virgin Mary 
came to us down the centuries, replete with adoration 
and praise. 

A young Indian Neophyte knelt near the confes- 
sional and looked with rapt, strained eyes at the cru- 
cifix beyond, a swarthy priest in purple and gold said 
mass in an inner chapel, and a pair of plighted lovers 
came out of the door and walked away, hand in hand. 

At last when the music had died away across the 
valley, and the stillness of the night was broken only 
by the insistent buzz of many insects, my companion 
turned to me and said: 

"Must you really go back?" 

"Yes," I replied, "I must go back, I have lingered 
too long already in the poppy fields of Mexico. I 
would stay if I could " 

"Why don't you say it is your duty to go. That is 
the usual formula of one's friends, when they want 
to evade a question." 

"Yes, it is my duty,"I assented. 

"What is duty, anyway, but the most disagreeable 
thing one can think of?" 

"My heart bids me to stay. My conscience bids me 
to go." 

"Your conscience? What has the conscience to do 
with it? You mean it is your desire to go." 

"Yes, and no. My family, my duty, and my native 
land, call me, and I must go, though it be with a sad 
heart. Who knows but some day I may return. But 

149 



(Eli^a ana OBtfielBteBa 



sometimes there comes over me such a longing to 
smell the apple blossoms in the orchard under the 
hill, to hear the voices, and touch the hands of long 
forgotten friends, to see the home of my childhood, 
and the graves of my buried dead. Then, why should 
I stay on, when we must surely say good bye at last." 

A traveler once said to his friend standing on the 
banks of the Tiber : 

"You may take leave of Rome, but be consoled 
Rome will not take leave of you." 

And so it is with Mexico. If you remain there for 
only a few weeks, take a cursory glance about you, 
and encounter the many disagreeable and unpleasant 
things, you may go home with the idea, that it is a 
picturesque and beautiful country with a decided touch 
of the mediaeval and quaint. You will be impressed 
by the unusual customs, and picturesque costumes; 
the silhouetted mountain, the pictured valley, the ruins, 
and the beauty of the cathedrals, but also you will 
get the idea that there is much in the country that is 
unsightly and even repulsive. But should you remain 
for any appreciable length of time, she will hold out 
her cup of magic to you also. Be sure, you will al- 
ways see the moon, hanging white as snow over the 
gray turret, the pale mists, disappearing down the 
valley, like wraiths of vanishing races, Lake Chapala 
sighing among her orange groves. Even in the cold 
of winter, you will feel the intense breath of the burn- 
ing sun, look up into the languorous skies, and out 
on the sorcery of a tropical night. The song of the 
nightingale and the mocking bird will come to you, 
and in your dreams you will hear the soft alluring 
monotone of the Indian maiden, and the guttural of 

150 



in ^uito 



the Spaniard. There will float before you the vision 
of the Temple ; frieze and fresco, dome and turret, 
chiseled fagade, sculptured niche, the odor of incense, 
the mystic hour of the vesper songs. You will hear 
the quiet tread of many feet, the dull roll of countless 
carriages, the musical, depressing bugle notes of the 
gendarme, as he calls out the watches of the night. 

There will pass before you, the never-ending pro- 
cession of sad-browed, blue-rebozoed women, and 
white-robed men, the unceasing train of patient, heavy- 
burdened burros. 

All these things and many more one can see, and 
the air soft, seductive, treacherous, steals over and 
envelops one hke the odor from the poppy fields of 
India, and one feels that one has indeed wandered off 
into the land of the Lotus Eaters. 



THE END 



151 



OCT 2t .19iJ 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
OCT 21 i^«l 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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